


Not Quite The Devil You Know

by Taranea



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Cool Cars, Crack, Crossover, Crowley Mistreats Plants, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Our Angels Are Different, Plants Mistreat Crowley, Superwholock Omens, Two Crowleys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:12:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 47,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taranea/pseuds/Taranea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean does not appreciate being stuck in London. Anthony J. Crowley does not appreciate being 'hunted' by two lunatics. Duke of hell Hastur is extremely annoyed that two strange mortals keep interfering with his plans to get revenge on Crowley himself, and Aziraphale disapproves mildly of the word 'assbutt'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Not So Friendly Skies

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[Translation]Not Quite The Devil You Know非典型恶魔事件](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4427801) by [isaakfvkampfer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaakfvkampfer/pseuds/isaakfvkampfer)



> A/N: This story takes place roughly during season 6 of Supernatural, when Sam and Dean go to the UK to find Crowley's bones. For purposes of angst-reduction, Sam already has his soul back, though - it also ignores certain bits of SPN canon that have been established after season 6. For Good Omens, the story takes place like a decade and a half after the events of the book. Mostly supposed to be a light-hearted adventure romp, hope you like! :)

**Prologue:**

Over the course of their years as hunters of the supernatural, Sam and Dean Winchester have already gone to a variety of exciting, exotic and dangerous places. They have been to haunted houses, to the lair of a dragon, to the Wild West, to purgatory, to hell and even to comic conventions. In most cases, several times.

But it was once, and only once...that they went to England.

And things, of course, went horribly wrong.

**Chapter 1: The Not-so Friendly Skies**

"What?" A well-built man in his thirties, wearing a cargo jacket and a facial expression that promised trouble, pointed toward a large window.

"You're telling me that _this airport_ ," he said, indicating their surroundings which consisted of that very special version of applied Chaos theory that was Heathrow, "this largest airport in this miserable country where it's constantly _raining,"_ he went on, "is closed because of _snow_?"

His arm, trembling just slightly, was still extended and pointing to the weather outside the large window of the Heathrow departures counter.

"You call this _snow_? _!_ " he asked, while a rather pathetic snowflake fluttered to earth outside without much visible enthusiasm, sort of clung to the window a little and then seemed to give up and melt.

"I'm sorry sir, but due to the weather forecast no flights will be leaving from Heathrow International Airport for at least the next 24 hours," the receptionist replied primly, looking the agitated man up and down while obviously wondering why some people were even allowed on planes.

"Look-" the man with the crew cut began again, but was stopped this time by a taller male with longer hair stepping up behind him, gripping him on the shoulder and trying to get him out of the face of the woman behind the counter.

"Dean. Stop it," he hissed, before flashing a sort of pained grimace at the receptionist, who was now giving the two a distinct ' _Americans_ '- look of British Disapproval.

"I'm sorry for my brother. It's okay. We'll wait until the airport re-opens," the taller man said, at the same time trying to gently but firmly steer the one called Dean away from the counter and back toward the exit of the airport. Dean didn't seem to be too happy about it.

"I psyched myself up for this flight, Sam! That took time!" An angry shrug shook Sam's hand off and Dean re-adjusted the strap of his backpack, which was the only item of luggage either of the brothers had.

"Yeah. I know." The taller man tried to speak in a manner as calming as possible. "Let's still leave before we get arrested in yet _another_ country, okay?" Sam gave a meaningful nod of his head, indicating the security that was already looking their way.

"Fine," Dean grunted, but at least stomped on ahead of his brother toward the exit now. To Sam's surprise, however, he didn't turn down the walkway leading to the trains they had taken to get here, but instead walked straight over to the parking decks. His older brother's mood seemed thunderous enough that it took Sam a couple of minutes to bring it over his heart to tell Dean what he had apparently forgotten.

"Er, Dean? We returned the rental, we don't have a-"

"No." The older of the two had stopped abruptly as he'd said that, dropping his backpack to the ground and turning around, his index finger raised threateningly. "We do have a car. We _always_ have a car. It just isn't here yet."

"What?" Sam looked around at the deserted level of the underground parking garage they were standing in. "Are you seriously planning to-?"

"Why not? He had no problem picking up our gear and the bones before we went through customs, so he obviously can transport things a lot easier than people." Dean shrugged, then turned around again, facing the wall and glancing vaguely upwards.

"Cas?" he asked the thin air. "Look, you may not be able to zap us home, or even stay here for longer than a minute, but at least get your angel mojo in gear for this. I want..." he cleared his throat. "No, scratch that. I _need_ my ride."

"He's fighting a _civil war_ in Heaven, Dean," Sam pointed out, his tone a bit like a pre-school teacher who was currently explaining to the class why their angel friend sadly couldn't drop in anymore, "He's so busy fighting against Raphael, he's not even answering my prayers half of the time. You can't seriously expect him to-"

There was a distinct sound like the fluttering of wings. Sam paused mid-sentence, mostly because Dean standing in front of him was now wearing the biggest shite-eating grin.

"The Impala is standing behind me now, isn't it?" the taller man asked.

"Yup."

"...angels playing favourites is so _totally_ unfair."

"Get over it. As long as we don't have to ride friggin busses again," Dean said, at the same time stepping over to the driver's side of the car, dumping his backpack on the back seat and sliding behind the steering wheel with an obvious sigh of pleasure.

"Yeah, Cas must be the only person on Earth who actually _likes_ riding public transport," Sam said, also taking his customary shotgun seat and closing the door behind him. Dean had started the ignition with the key conveniently already inside, and soon enough the black '67 'Metallicar' Impala was slowly moving out of the parking space and toward the exit. As they emerged from the garage and drove onto the open road, more snowflakes than before were now falling from the sky and Dean's mood noticeably darkened again.

"The weather is getting worse. Great. If these people over here already start closing down their airports when they see even a _picture_ of a snowflake, we'll be stuck here until Crowley back home dies of old age."

"According to the weather forecast it does seem like it'll be snowing heavily for at least the next two days," Sam said, reading the information from his phone. Then he frowned. "Bit strange, though. Most sites are labelling it as a 'freak snow storm' that came completely out of the blue."

"Yeah, I know, snow in winter, what a weird and whacko weather pattern, right?" Dean grunted .

"Well, this _is_ England," Sam pointed out as the Impala rolled onto the M4, making its way back toward London and probably scaring the minis driving beside them.

"Yeah, tell me about it," grumbled Dean, staring at the road ahead of them miserably. "They can't even call fries by their real name. I swear, we shouldn't have declared independence, we should have taken this place over."

Sam sighed. "Let's just find a place to stay for the next couple of nights, okay? And calm down. You're acting like this was some act of cosmic vengeance or something."

xxx

" _For how many days this time?!_ " the question had been asked in a tone of dismay, and the curly-haired, kindly-looking man who had spoken actually looked quite troubled.

"Just two. Or maybe three," the other man sitting on the coach across replied serenely, sipping at a cup of tea he held.

From a spectator's perspective, the two hardly could have looked more different – Aziraphale, the anxious blonde on the left with his loose, brown pants and plaid vest that probably hadn't even been fashionable when it had been in fashion, was not only visually a stark contrast to his slim, dark-haired companion. Anthony J. Crowley, as he called himself, was dressed as usual in a tight-fitting, black bespoke Italian suit paired with a dark red silk shirt and snake skin boots - it was an outfit so sharp, it actually threatened to cut unsupecting bystanders.

Additonally, mild blue eyes and an already slightly pudgy middle-aged face and figure meant Aziraphale never quite lost that aura of a mildly distressed armchair, especially when put out by something - but looking at Crowley, even when you saw him just lounging on the sofa like this, for some reason a very old part of your brain would insist that what you were _really_ seeing was something with scales that struck from the grass.

And one _other_ important difference was that they weren't men at all, but actually one happened to be a somewhat bibliophile angel of the Lord, and the other...well, he _had_ been an angel once, but since then had not so much Fallen, as Vaguely Sauntered Downwards. Currently the latter was smiling, but that smile was now slowly disappearing and being replaced with a frown of annoyance as it became apparent that the distraught expression of the angel wasn't disappearing.

"Oh, come on. The closing down of Heathrow is my favourite event in the season. _And_ I kept my promise to you not to do it around Christmas, so everyone could go home for the holidays," the demon complained, only gagging a little around the last sentence.

"But do you have to do it every year?" Aziraphale asked with a sigh, and Crowley grinned again.

" _Absssolutely_."

"Very well. As long as there are no plane crashes this time around," the angel replied, seemingly resigned to London's snowy fate for now. He picked up his coat. "Shall we?"

"Of course." Crowley rose from his chair in one fluid movement, still radiating smugness worse than a cat that had gotten into the radioactive cream. "The Ritz tonight, then?"

"Yes. Your treat this time," the angel reminded him as they were both about to exit the bookshop. "Though mind you, one of these days I wouldn't be surprised if one of your wiles wouldn't come back to, as they say, 'bite you in the...' _well,_ " Aziraphale didn't finish the sentence, but still managed to give an impression of general divine disapproval to convey his meaning.

Crowley snorted as they got into his car, the demon letting the engine spring to life with a snap of his fingers, not because the snapping was necessary, but because of _style_ , and only gave his friend a condescending sneer.

"One of my wiles backfiring on _me_?" the demon asked in a patronizing tone while the angel rolled his eyes, both of them completely oblivious to a very _different_ black car currently speeding toward London. Crowley laughed.

" _Hardly_!"

xxx

"So we're stuck in London," Dean stated for what felt like the hundredth time, both brothers walking along the wet pavement and shuffling past other pedestrians. The mood of the older Winchester had not improved. "They don't even have motels here. Or diners. No _culture_ , I'm telling you."

"Come on. The curry around this Soho area is supposed to be decent," Sam once again tried to mend the US-Europe relations, but without much success. They had found a cheap-ish hotel closeby that also offered a parking space for the Impala, but trying to drive around in London during the day, the receptionist had said, was 'a bit of a bother', so the two brothers had left the car and were now searching for food on foot.

"That looks like an okay place," Dean pointed at a pub across the street that (unsurprisingly) had a big picture of a pie on its menu. The younger Winchester nodded as Dean had already started to cross to the other side.

"Yeah, okay, let's g-"

And it was at this point that Sam saw death coming for his older brother, and it was black, elegant and travelling at at least at 70 miles per hour.

It was only because Dean hadn't looked toward the correct side. Sam lunged forward, desperately trying to grab him, to pull him back, do anything to prevent him dying here, in London, from something so stupid and trivial as a _car accident_ , but even then he could already see he would be too late. Sam screamed his brother's name at the exact same moment the '27 Bentley made contact with Dean's skin.

xxx

" _Watch OUT!_ "

In the manner of all shotgun riders of crazy drivers, Aziraphale was grabbing onto random things in the car, clinging on for dear life. It was doubly useless, not only in the way that grabbing onto anything in a moving car wouldn't save you in the event of a crash, but also in the sense that Aziraphale was an immortal angel, and therefore very likely to survive a traffic accident anyway.

That still didn't mean he _wouldn't_ hold on the handle bars, though, nor keep Crowley from actually _getting_ into crashes in the first place. Fortunately, for an angel, moving objects like street lamps _,_ or hapless people like the young man just now by simply altering reality with a small miracle wasn't that hard of a task. Also, after driving around with Anthony J. Crowley for the better part of a century, keeping anyone from getting killed during their outings by now was pretty much a mere subroutine for Aziraphale.

" _You almost ran over a pedestrian!_ "

It was still angelic duty to point it out, however.

The demon at the steering wheel shrugged. "It's on the street, it knows the risk it's taking."

"You were driving at over 70 miles per hour in the middle of London," Aziraphale stated dutifully. "I don't think anyone is prepared for that."

The dark-haired demon gave an irritated wave with his hand. "So? They looked American. There's too many of them around, anyway."

" _Crowley_!"

xxx

"What the hell! Where'd that car come from?!" Dean shouted, just as Sam had managed to pull him back to safety at the last second before he could step onto the street. He shrugged his younger brother's grip off, straightening his jacket as he looked after the pitch black antique racing away at a speed that shouldn't have been possible in the middle of the city.

"Although being run over by that actually wouldn't be the worst way to go," he added with a somewhat grudging appreciation. "Just would like to see the bastard driving it like that."

Dean had said it in a casual tone, but, as he turned back to Sam and actually saw his younger brother's expression, stopped himself from saying anything more. Sam seemed to have trouble getting his breathing under control, and his eyes were too wide, his face entirely too pale.

"...what?" Dean asked. "I'm okay, Sammy. You caught me in time."

"Yeah..." his brother agreed, the expression of fear now slowly dissolving, but instead being replaced by one of confusion. "But...weren't you in _front_ of that car just a second ago?"

Dean looked at his brother. From anyone else, that question would have sounded like nonsense, because if he really _had_ stepped onto the street earlier, he probably would already be having a meeting with a very bony gentleman, but...for some reason what Sam had said _sounded_ like it was right. But it couldn't have been.

"No..." Dean replied, but he didn't seem so sure. Most people would have dismissed a weird, near-death experience as a trick of the senses, but when your family name was Winchester...

Sam looked at his older brother worriedly.

"It's not Tuesday, is it?"

_To be continued..._


	2. Don't Cross the Streams!

**Chapter 2: Don't Cross The Streams!**

"Come on. The curry last night wasn't so bad, now, was it? And the airport's due to open again in a few days," Sam said as they were sitting in a cafe the next morning, both trying to warm up from the cold air outside. Dean was still looking unhappy that they would be stuck in England for the day at least, and Sam was slowly losing patience with the grumpy mood of his older brother.

"Let's just treat it as a holiday, okay? _Normal_ people get to take those."

"A holiday," Dean grunted. "When do _we_ ever get a holiday? I mean, this is London," he said redundantly, looking out at the street through the cafe's window with the discontent of any country boy that lived for open roads but was currently forced into urban life and had already had a run-in with several city pidgeons, "By the end of the day we'll probably have, I dunno, a run-in with zombie Shakespeare, or a reincarnation of Jack the Ripper, or there's bloodthirsty mermaids in the friggin _Thames_ -"

"Or maybe _nothing_ ," Sam cut him off, but, to be truthful, even he wasn't entirely convincing himself. He had been a bit on edge ever after the run-in with the black vintage car yesterday, but so far, nothing out of the ordinary had happened after that. After dinner at the pub, Dean had gone out drinking and come back sometime in the night with enough lipstick on his face that the only 'death' he had died that night might have been a very little one. Sam had spent the time finally relaxing and reading in their hotel room, getting a little tipsy himself with the help of the mini bar and writing another letter to Stephen King. So at least he was _trying_ to tell himself that this could be a holiday.

But then again, he couldn't have known about the demon Hastur, Duke of Hell and more powerful than anything they had come across ever bar Lucifer, possessing the body of a short, stocky waitress only five yards away from them.

xxx

It had been twenty years. In fact, it had been even slightly more than twenty years, but, despite it being a virtue, demons could be patient.

"Crowley...you managed to botch the apocalypse...you managed to _melt_ Ligur...a bastard only _I_ should have been allowed to kill..." 

Of course, the duke of hell was referring to the very unfortunate incident about twenty years ago, when the demon in question had not only managed to avert the end of the world and blatantly disregarded his orders, but also had placed a bucket of holy water over a door just as Ligur, long-time partner of Hastur had entered it when they had been sent to collect Crowley for his disobedience. And Hastur's capability of holding onto grudges was so good he was practically a black hole of resentment.

"Oh, I am going to show him. I am going to _burn his heart out._ "

This time, Hastur wasn't going to make the same mistake as twenty years ago. This time, he had not ascended in a custom-tailored human body that reflected his true form, but had taken possession of a random mortal instead. It meant he was far from as powerful as he could be, but holy water could only cause him minor burns in this form. Crowley, on the other hand, who was still walking around in that oh-so-sharp bespoke body he had received from Hell, would not be so lucky. Just like Ligur, he would instead suffer a very, _very_ messy death. And he hadn't the faintest what was coming for him. The possessed waitress broke out into a demonic cackle as she poured the Latte Macchiato that was laced with the blessed liquid.

This also caused her coworkers, who had been listening to her incomprehensible mumblings all morning, to start getting slightly worried at this point - work had clearly been getting to her.

Hastur now very carefully placed the hot beverage an unsuspecting Crowley had ordered not five minutes ago on a tray, put the container with the rest of the holy water to the side, and then started to walk with the glass toward the stairs leading to the upper level of the cafe, where his prey was currently sitting in blissful ignorance and reading a newspaper.

xxx

"Oh, by the way," Sam spoke up while Dean was busy taking out his frustration on some innocent eggs, "while you were out yesterday I was just reading up on some lore. I found something that might be helpful when dealing with demons in the future."

"We _have_ something that is helpful when dealing with demons." His older brother wasn't looking up from his food. "It's called 'Ruby's knife'."

"Yeah, but it never hurts to have alternatives. I have found something that's basically like...an emergency exorcism."

Dean stopped eating, fork halfway to his mouth.

"What now?"

Sam pulled out a sheet of paper he had scribbled something on. "It's basically supposed to be a _really_ short exorcism that is still very powerful. Problem is, it doesn't work if the demon is caught in a devil's trap, and also you have to be really close to him, like within arm's reach. So most of the time you'll probably be ganked before you even have the chance to say it, but it can be a last resort. So, emergency exorcism." The taller man looked at his brother after this explanation, seemingly quite pleased with himself. 

Dean blinked. Then: "Dude, you _really_ need to get out more." 

Sam gave him a flat stare. "Also, it's less than two lines of text, so even _you_ should be able to learn those." Before his older brother could snap back a retort, the younger Winchester slid the writing pad toward him on the table. "Here, try it."

Dean levelled another stare Sam, but then seemed to give in, and pushed his plate aside to glance at the paper. Sam's writing was illegible at best, making Dean often wonder whether his younger brother wouldn't have been better off studying to become a doctor rather than a lawyer. But the 'emergency exorcism' really was only two lines of Latin text and at least most of the words were familiar. Dean took a breath and read them aloud.

" _Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus._.."

It came as a surprise to most people in the café when the waitress just passing their table then simply burst into flames.

xxx

Upstairs, Crowley stopped reading his newspaper. This was because it had started to rain on his angel food cake.

"Sprinklers?" the demon asked aloud.

xxx

" _Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh_ -!"

The waitress was screaming as flames licked at her form and black smoke had started to come out of her ears. Sam and Dean stared at her completely flabberghasted for a moment, but fortunately, the café owner was a lot quicker to react. Without thinking, he grabbed the container of water that was for some reason standing on the counter, and sloshed it all over the woman.

This, inexplicably, did not seem to have the desired effect.

xxx

" _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH_ -!"

"What the-?!" Sam and Dean had leapt to their feet, staring at the waitress whose eyes had now _definitely_ turned red, and the younger Winchester was about to pull out the knife, when her mouth finally opened and a tell-tale cloud of black smoke erupted, fleeing the steaming body and vanishing through the air vent.

"Was that-?" Sam grabbed the book still on the table, trying to flip open a particular page which was made difficult by the sprinklers now raining harder, British smoke alarms apparently a little bit sensitive to demon exorcisms. But at least they had also extinguished the last of the flames, the woman collapsing to the ground, unconscious, but miraculously unhurt.

"Aaaaaah! They have a _knife_!"

"Uh, Sam-" Dean was trying to get his brother's attention as now the first exclamations were breaking the silence in the cafe, and the two Winchesters were unfortunately right at the center of attention.

"These two! I saw them! They mumbled something and then she caught FIRE!" another woman sreamed shrilly while pointing at them, and _now_ the older Winchester was pretty sure he could also hear police sirens in the distance as the noise level was now rising rapidly. 

"Oh my god, it's a robbery!"

"No, I've seen it on telly, it's like in this culture they burn women's faces if they try to-!"

"TERRORISTS!"

And the café erupted into a riot.

Fortunately, in the general chaos it was still rather easy for the brothers to push past the waiters with practised ease and then sprint out the back door, Dean only vaguely noticing that right in front of the café, in a no-parking zone, there stood a particular black Bentley.

xxx

Police sirens now. Downstairs, people screaming like they hadn't since the last witch hunt. Crowley sighed and folded up his copy of the _Sun_ (he was particularly proud of his invention of _that_ one). Any hope of a peaceful breakfast now gone, the demon rose from his chair and, sprinklers curiously avoiding to hit him even with a drip of water, walked out of the café toward his parked car. He passed the unconscious woman without much concern, and, in turn, nobody particularly noticed him

Random activation of sprinklers to ruin a brunch outing. Well, at least he could always use that idea for some demonic activity in the future, so the morning hadn't been a total waste.

Mood somewhat restored, Crowley decided to bother Aziraphale for breakfast instead, and then perhaps buy another house plant for his apartment. There was a less-than-perfect camellia that needed... _replacing_. 

The stereo in the car playing a particular Kansas song from a cassette that hadn't yet been in the Bentley for a fortnight, Crowley drove off, whistling. 

xxx

Several thousand metaphorical miles below, Hastur, now safely back in hell, paced in his office.

Possessing someone had at least worked to conceal his aura from Crowley, despite the failed assassination. It was also a way of walking the earth that was a lot less dangerous than going up there in your own form that you had to...well, fill out a form for. That was what had gotten Ligur killed, though. Get even a small amount of holy water on a body that really _belonged_ to you, represented somewhat what you looked like, and you were done for. Getting splashed while possessing someone was still rather painful, but at least it left you the option to escape and survive. The downside of this much safer and stealthier way, however, came with a great reduction in power. Hastur paused and drummed his claws on the table in his lavishly furnished office in hell's capital city of Dis. Should he ascend in his true form, then, despite the danger and unleash all his fury on Crowley in a single show of demonic rage? He _was_ a Duke of Hell. That miserable wretch wouldn't stand a chance when it came to a direct comparison of power.... 

But no. The new management (Hastur almost felt like throwing up when thinking of the smug bastard who had taken power – he himself had favoured Lilith, she at least was _old_ and _proper_ ) the new management _disapproved_ of big showy displays that drew attention. 

Well.

Then again, at least the new boss – Howdy, or whatever he called himself – was busying himself with some sort of monster experiments or whatever plebeians had as a hobby these days and wasn't paying much attention to what the demon nobility was up to. Just as well. But it meant before going all out, Hastur thought, it might be a wise decision to exhaust at least the rest of the options of how best to make Crowley suffer. Having finally made a decision, the duke of hell nodded to himself and then turned to stride out of his office, leaving the door with the Crowley dart board swinging shut behind him and turning firmly toward the more crowded parts of Dis, where the lower classes resided.

As such, Hastur didn't like consorting with...lesser demons. That was, demons that weren't of angel stock, belonging to the original Fallen like himself and that dirtcrawler, Crowley, but demons made from human souls. Hastur's lip twisted in contempt. Human souls that had been twisted over hellfire for decades first, maybe, but still. And lately, they had also been getting rather uppity.

But then again, Crowley had always said that, for all their shortcomings, human beings were at least... _inventive_ , Hastur thought as he arrived at the door he had been looking for, the residence of a very particular lesser demon.

Because when it came to torturing, this one was supposed to be the master of the craft.

"Hello, duke," Alastair greeted Hastur as he entered. "What can I do for you?"

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone who commented, thanks a bunch, it did give me the confidence to post the new chapter! :D Crossovers can be tough, but I hope you liked it! Anyone worried for London's safety yet? :p If you read, please review!


	3. EX-GERMINATE!

**Chapter 3: EX-GERMINATE!**

"So...I hear you're good at torture."

"You have heard correctly," Alastair replied, regarding Duke Hastur steadily. The human demon was currently still wearing the last vessel he had inhabited, a tall, wiry man with thinning foxbrown hair and a smile that would have made anyone but another demon sick.

"I may have been...out of the picture for a while due to some, ah, inconveniences, but I am still very much the most skilled purveyor of pain around these parts. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Hastur had to admit it, even the way the demon spoke was enough to make you want to avoid contact with him. He would be dam – _blessed_ if he let any of that show on his face, however.

"There is someone I'd like you to try your skills on."

"Oh?" Alastair asked, and the way his face spread into a smile now uncannily reminded you of something nuzzling at dead meat in the Savannah. "Who?"

"A demon named Crowley," Hastur replied and Alastair's expression changed from predatory to disbelief.

"What _?_! That punk-ass crossroads demon that most of the time used to be drunk off his arse? I don't know whether you noticed, your grace, but he is currently _slightly_ higher on the food chain than both of us."

"What?" Hastur frowned. "I'm not talking about any crossroads demon. I'm talking about our field agent in the British Empire!"

Then he paused, before adding: "Though the drunk-of-his-arse-bit sounds about right."

"The British...?" Alastair began, then stopped himself. Right. The torture expert reminded himself that most of the higher demons did not spend that much time on earth as such and therefore could be a bit behind in current events. He cocked his head.

"So...we're talking about a different Crowley, then? Not that upstart?"

"I have no idea who you are talking about, but the one I'm referring to is one of the original Fallen, like me," Hastur replied, though saying that last bit out loud seemed to be actually physically painful for him. Then some more explanations followed, mostly concerned with treachery against hell, a completely ruined apocalypse and antichrists not being what they used to be. It ended with Hastur's unlucky stint as a waitress in a small cafe in south London, and when he was finished, the gears in Alastair's head had already started turning (and possibly crushing some innocent victims between them).

"I see," the human demon said, leaning back against the table. "The chance to torture an angel who chose to Fall. That sounds interesting."

"Yes, but first I need to kill him to drag him back to hell, and I want long, long hours of utter _terror_ for him to lead up to that event. I just don't want to get burnt in the process again," Hastur said, the last bit coming out somewhat plaintive. Alastair gave an unholy grin.

"There is no need to worry. I know exactly what we'll do."

"You'll go to Earth instead?"

"Oh, no, no, no, your Grace." Alastair smiled. "The proper way is you don't do the dirty work yourself. At first you use... _agents_."

xxx

"Okay. What the hell. Demons in town? _Here_?" Sam asked, the two brothers now walking along the streets of London once more, having briefly stopped off at their hotel to change their soaked clothes. "Do you think this is a case?"

Dean snorted. "In my opinion, Crowley probably just put out a revenge hit on us. I mean, dude's gotta be pissed after we dug up his bones. Nothing we can't handle." He pointed at the piece of paper in his brother's hand. "What are we looking for again, anyway?"

Sam, who previously had taken more than ten minutes to explain to his older brother the meaning of the long and complex botanic nomenclature written down on the list he was holding, sighed.

"A bunch of flowers, Dean."

"What does Bobby want with _that_?"

"I think they're the ingredients for a batch of hex bags he wants to prepare for a group of hunters up north," Sam replied, looking again at the text message from their older friend. "And since he seems to be really happy to have his soul back, he decided to show his gratitude by sending us shopping."

"Some gratitude," Dean grunted, but there was no real malice behind it. Ever since the old hunter had all but adopted the two brothers when their own father kept dropping them off at his place, there were only few things the two _wouldn't_ have done for him if asked.

"So why are we shopping for a bunch of weeds in London?"

"I think some of them are illegal in the US. Anyway, this is the address he gave us," Sam said, coming to a stop in front of a store that looked large, but a bit neglected and run-down.

Dean's eye brows went up a bit as he noticed a black classic Bentley parked outside, despite there being no parking space anywhere. For some reason, it seemed to him as if he had been seeing a lot of them in the last 24 hours, but he wasn't exactly sure whether it was the same one, or a lot of Londoners just had money and taste in cars.

The bell above the door jingled as the two brothers entered, but other than that, the store was almost eerily quiet. This was especially strange as it also seemed far larger than the exterior had suggested, the pale winter sun filtering through a skylight, and two paths of terracotta stone disappearing into what seemed like a veritable maze of plants on display. With all the greenery surrounding them and the warm, humid air - probably due to the artificial lily pond in the middle of the sprawling shop - it felt, in fact, a bit like as if they had stepped out of London and into the jungle.

And Dean couldn't help but feeling that somewhere in it, there was something on the prowl.

He shook off the odd notion and instead stepped further into the store, looking around for a shopping assistant or something. Beside him, Sam was scanning the list again.

"Okay, so the first thing on the list is a plant called..."

"Right," his brother replied, though Sam could tell he wasn't even listening. Not that Sam could blame him - truth to tell, the odd, jungle-like shop was kind of giving him the creeps as well, his hunter's instinct already screaming at him to leave.

"Let's just get the plants and go, Dean."

"Okay..." the older Winchester replied, at the same time craning his head because he thought he had seen someone else in the shop, just behind a thick row of potted botany. But the guy had been wearing a black suit, he thought, so definitely not a shopping assistant. Where _was_ everybody, anyway? How big was this store? Then something else caught his attention.

"Sam?" Dean asked, but the younger Winchester ignored him. Finding a shopping assistant would be a first priority because if the store was really this large, they could be here for hours, and Sam had no intention of letting that happen.

"Uh, Sam? There's-"

Behind him, Dean was talking again, but Sam had already taken a few steps forward, hoping to catch at least a glimpse of someone else inside. "Hello?" he called into the general direction of the interior of the shop, but there wasn't any reply, the silent wall of green foliage seeming to swallow all sound instead. Sam even wondered whether some of the leaves had just _moved -  
_

"Dammit, _Sam_!" 

The taller man let out an annoyed sigh. "What is it now, Dean? Seriously, can't you be quiet and focus for a minute? Because I think something definitely is wrong here."

Sam turned around and it was at this point that he noticed that Dean had a moving green vine wrapped around most of his forearm. Also, while the older Winchester was fighting back, he still ultimately seemed to be losing a fight against a begonia.

As Sam's eyes widened in amazement, the flower just continued to enthusiastically crawl upward, clearly aiming for the hunter's throat. Dean momentarily stopped tugging to free himself from the floral fiend, and took a moment to stare at his brother.

"You _think_ , Sammy?!" 

xxx

Crowley was used to terrifying his plants. He wasn't used to them trying to avenge their botanic brethren.

"What the-?!" the demon hissed and pulled back, his eyes behind the sunglasses glowing a hellish red as he tore at the flora with slightly more than human strength. What was _happening_? A moment ago, he had simply been looking for a cactus. _Now_ he was staring with huge yellow eyes at a sort of rose that had curled up like a snake and managed to - _hiss_ \- at him while rattling a thorny tail.

Crowley knew he had a reputation among plant shops in the city. Aziraphale once had told him he'd wanted to buy Crowley a pointsettia for a Christmas present, only to find out it had thrown itself off the table when he left it alone for a moment, apparently preferring suicide to a a life in the demon's apartment. But actually _attacking_ was a different approach altogether.

Crowley snarled and tried to summon up hellfire, but that didn't seem to impress the plants much. Were they controlled by a demon themselves, then? A palm tree tried to fall on top of him and the demon dodged it at the last second, also evading most of the pansies that were now hurling themselves off the shelves at his head.

"Ow! Stop it! _Ow_!"

The store had been curiously empty ever since he had entered ten minutes ago. He had only heard the door bell jingle once since then, two men coming in, but Crowley had been too busy to really notice anything about them, because right after that, the plants had started to attack.

Now Crowley was attempting to simply will himself out of the store, but could feel that he was definitely being repelled. No demon magic possible, then. Which meant that he either had to be standing in a devil's trap, _or_ a more powerful demon was blocking him and in the absence of any paint store utensils in the area, Crowley was definitely leaning toward the latter alternative.

He swallowed. Now he could feel vines wrap around his torso before he could slip away, ensnaring him, and slight panic set in as he suddenly realized that the vines were wet and slimy. And belonged to a water lily. And it was now distinctly dragging him toward the pond in the shop, obviously harbouring herbaceous dreams of being a floral Cthulhu one day. 

Forgoing any pretence of dignity now entirely, Crowley started flailing, his shades flying off his face as a liana went straight for his eyes and only narrowly missed them. The demon didn't even notice, just scrambling to find even the tiniest purchase on the floor before he would be sleeping with the koi carps. Somewhere on the other side of the pond, there was a little splash, but there were still too many moving plants growing out of the water and hanging from the ceiling for him to really see what was happening. The thought shot through Crowley's head that there had been two other people in the store, too, and briefly wondered whether the splash had been them getting dragged into the pond, but also found himself unable to care very much. He was losing ground, inch by inch and was very likely going to be drowned, and how was he going to explain to the office the need for a new body _then_?

And then, just before the water could make contact with Crowley's skin, suddenly the vines tensed up and then flailed upwards, releasing him, before just as suddenly going limp and and flopping back to the floor. Crowley's head snapped around, trying to find out what had happened, only to have his eyes become even larger as he realized the whole pond suddenly seemed to be _steaming_. The plants in contact with the water were flailing before dying, and then turning black and curling in on themselves, even while the battle in the other parts of the store still seemed to be going strong. Apparently, the two hapless humans were putting up quite a fight. But what was going on with the pond...? Crowley pulled himself onto all fours and crawled up to the water's edge cautiously. He bent over it, peering into the murky depths....and then scrambled back as fast as he could with a strangled hiss as soon as he caught a glimpse of a rosary bobbing over to his side.

It was still a lily pond.

Just now it was filled with holy water.

Crowley bleached just a little as he imagined just what his fate would have been had he been dragged into _that._

Behind the foliage, someone yelled something along the lines of "Dean! The knife is working!" but Crowley at this point really didn't care about any sort of cutlery and its effects. He needed to get out of this shop. Dashing past a row of menacing shrubbery, he was only vaguely aware of the two flailing tourists a couple of metres away. One of them glimpsed into his direction and the demon nearly paused, but then the orchids advanced behind him, and Crowley therefore booked it, Bentley leaving with screeching tires.

xxx

"The holy water works, too!" Dean yelled back at his brother who was slashing at the plants with Ruby's knife, the flora turning blackened and dead wherever the blade cut. But even so, there were simply too many opponents, the brothers being pushed further and further back, having been cut off from the door. Since the demon-killing knife was working, Dean had tried out the holy water on a whim, using whatever was available and now was splashing buckets of it over shop interior, when something caught his eye that let him stop dead.

Namely, another pair of eyes, glancing his way just for a split second through the foliage, and then they were already gone. A pair of very yellow eyes, in a human face. The man they belonged to had dashed through the door, slamming it shut with force and nearly tearing the damned bell off its hinges. The older Winchester cursed, trying to get away from the tulips gnawing at his boots, and was about to chase after him, when...

"DEAN!"

He turned around just in time to see his brother, who had been engaged in a deadly battle with a batch of daffodils, now spreadeagled against the wall, wrists and legs securely tied with ivy, the knife useless on the floor. The forget-me-nots were hopping towards him in their pots, ready to attack.

Dean swore under his breath as he had to turn his back to the escape route of the man in black and instead hurled the bucket with holy water with all his might.

xxx

"Demon...plants? I mean, like... _plants,_ " Sam said for what felt like the umpteenth time, though it didn't seem to make any more sense to him now, either. It was about twenty minutes later that the brothers sat in the parked Impala again, having pulled up to a hold a block away from the killer plant shop. Sam was currently busy trying to dry himself with a packet of kleenex (but was still smelling like holy swamp water), and Dean was still fishing flower petals out of places that were never have meant to have flower petals in them.

"We've had demon bugs before," the older Winchester pointed out.

"Yeah, but I doubt London has been built on a _Native American_ holy ground," Sam retorted, stuffing the last of the tissues into the ash tray. "And anyway, those back then were curse bugs, not demon bugs."

"Whatever. The knife worked, the holy water worked, I'm calling demon."

Sam looked at him. "You think Crowley's still out to get us?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe. But..."

"But what?" Sam prompted him when the older Winchester didn't continue.

Dean took a breath. "But maybe it isn't Crowley. Maybe it has something to do with that Bentley."

"The _Bentley_?" Sam asked, sounding about as equally incredulous as when the discussion had been about possessed plants.

"That Bentley or the guy driving it," said Dean grimly. "I think I saw it at the cafe this morning, too. But also..." the older man paused a moment. "I saw the guy who drove away with it, Sammy. He had yellow eyes."

"What?"

His younger brother was looking straight at him now, and Dean could see how carefully he was trying to control his expression. "Not like...?" Sam began, but didn't need to finish the question. Just as the hellhounds were burnt into Dean's memory, his younger brother would likely never forget the demon that had made him drink his blood before going on to kill their mother.

"...no. Not like him." Dean swallowed and then forced his mind away from the memories, gripping the steering wheel that felt reassuringly solid under his fingers, trying to focus on the present situation. "That thing's eyes were _all_ yellow, not just the iris. And vertical pupils. Like a cat. Or a snake."

"...okay," Sam breathed out and nodded.. "Fine. But if it isn't Crowley...maybe you were right. This could be a case."

The tension broken, Dean snorted. " _Could_ be a case? Dude. I had to save you in there. You were _losing_ a fight, Sam. Against a potted sunflower."

Sam glowered at him.

"Jerk."

Dean grinned. "Bitch."

And with that, the Impala sprang to life and rolled out and back toward London, "You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet" playing as the two world's best hunters and one demon in a Bentley sped towards the city, while at the same time in Dis after a failed assassination in a plant shop, literally all hell was breaking loose.

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos! :) :p Seems like Crowley may soon have a bigger problem than just plants that bite the hand that waters(?) them...if you read, please review, would love to hear what you think!


	4. A Bit Of Light Reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Season of SPN already in sight! SO excited. :D Thanks for your comments, and if you read, please review!

**Chapter 4: A Bit of Light Reading**

" _A fat lot of good your rotten plants did!_ " 

Somewhere in Dis, there was a Duke of hell, and he was very distinctly _not_ happy. He was also currently shouting at Alastair, who was already envisioning said Duke upon something comfortable, like a damn rack. 

"There! He escapes! _Unscathed_!" Hastur spat, replaying the security footage (CCTV was, in fact, an invention of hell) for what felt like the hundredth time. Once again a panicking Crowley could be seen madly dashing out of the door, scrambling into his car and then taking off as fast as he could, very much alive and very much in one piece.

"That shouldn't have happened. There was something weakening the plants. Something unprecedented that killed off demonic energy," Alastair protested, sounding just a tad bit defensive.

"Nonsense!" Hastur snapped, "The only power in London that possesses ways to counter Hell is that poofy angel, and he hasn't done any smiting in decades. Unfortunately, for some reason Crowley seems to continue to elude him," the Duke grumbled, before adding: "Anyway, that heavenly pest wasn't even anywhere close to the plant store when something killed your creatures. Hey. Are you _listening_?"Hastur barked at Alastair, but the chief torturer of hell only continued to ignore him. Instead, something on the security footage seemed to have caught his attention and the human demon was staring at the grainy black and white picture while the edges of his mouth seemed to be going ever further down.

"Oh fer Chrissakes..."

"What?" asked Hastur.

Alastair looked at his boss and Hastur got the impression that the lower demon was currently trying very hard to keep his voice even. Above his eye, there was a funny little muscle twitching.

Alastair took another breath.

"If I said, 'those _fucking_ Winchesters', would it mean anything to you?"

xxx

The bell tinkled as the younger one of those (currently not fucking) Winchesters stepped into the book store, carefully tucking his head in as he passed the doorway because of Tall People Problems.

Dean had said he wanted to go looking for what he still believed was a demon, while Sam, who thought they might be facing something else, had suggested going and studying the lore about what would potentially have snake-like eyes and be weak to holy water. A call to Bobby's had resulted in a) grumbling about why 'you two idjits can't even get the damn shopping right without stepping into a freaking case' and b) the advice of hitting up some of London's antique book dealers. As far as he knew, Bobby had said, their collection of old, rare books on lore and mythology was among the top five in the world. And as far as first impressions went, Sam thought, their friend just might have been right.

He took a few steps inside the old, dusty second-hand book store he had found in Soho, a bit off from the street where most of the other book dealers had been, and could already say that he was impressed. The shelves were creaky, worn and cluttered and seemed to follow no system of organization known to man, but still the (vaguely recognizable) section containing the books Sam was looking for was _huge_. The younger Winchester had never particularly studied anything about antique book prices, but even he could tell that some of these bible editions were incredibly rare and valuable. After only half an hour of browsing, Sam had already found works with more knowledge in them than he'd ever dreamed of.

The owner just didn't seem like he would let Sam buy anything.

"Hello. I'd like to get these."

"Uh...no."

"Excuse me?" Sam asked. That wasn't exactly the kind of answer you would expect in a shop. He had carried a stack of books relating to mythology of hell and beasts, and an interesting edition of the bible containing several additional chapters in the Revelation section, over to the desk with the old till the store owner sat at. But now there seemed to be some sort of problem with the next logical step.

"I can pay," Sam assured the man.

The book store owner, a Mr. Zira Fell by his name plaque at the door, seemed to squirm a little. Sam estimated the educated but awkward-looking man with the curly blonde hair, plaid vest and brown tweed pants to be probably middle-aged, a slight belly pudge attesting what 40-odd years of reading books and eating scones would probably do to you. At the moment, Sam would have judged Fell to be 1) British, 2) probably intelligent, and 3) gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrogen oxide (although he wasn't really sure where his brain had gotten that last comparison from).

Also, for some reason this financial transaction seemed to be physically painful for him.

"Oh, that's an accent you have there, isn't it? You're from the New World, I suppose?" the owner asked, almost sounding a little bit hopeful at his question. "In that case I'm very sorry, I can't take those plastic cards you people pay with."

"It's...fine. I do have cash. We do use that in America," Sam said slowly, even though this conversation was starting to take on the slightly bizarre flavour that was usually associated with trying to explain anything about pop culture or modern technology to Castiel.

Had that guy just called the US the 'New World'?

"But...those books are _really_ expensive," Fell said. "Not worth your money, honestly."

"What?" Sam blinked.

"Oh, and they're really boring, too."

"Okay, this _is_ a book store, right?" Sam asked, tone now increasingly incredulous.

"Look, you don't want those!" Fell seemed almost desperate at this point. "See here," he said, "these are much more entertaining works for boys your age."

With a hasty swipe, the owner had grabbed a book from a case that had newer-looking titles with much brighter colours that also looked a lot less...(well, Fell had a point there, _boring_ ) than the rest of the bookshop's inventory. The contrast of this single case with everything else was jarring, almost as if someone entirely different from the owner had added it on a whim. Now Fell was all but thrusting the book he held into Sam's face.

"Look, this one has all sorts of fantastical creatures in it, too!"

The younger Winchester's heart sank. He didn't even need to look at the cover with the two muscular men that had for some reason lost their shirts and seemed to staring at him with come-hither eyes to know which title the owner had grabbed.

"Sorry," Sam said with a grimace. "Not a big fan of _Supernatural_."

Why on Earth had these _goddamn_ books even made it across the pond?

xxx

Some time earlier and a few miles away, a black Bentley had been speeding toward central London, its driver just slightly upset and barely able to concentrate on Mozart's _We are the Champions_.

What had just happened?

Absent-mindedly, Crowley stopped the car and materialized himself new sunglasses while the tears in his suit simultaneously mended. The demon's fingers were gripping the steering wheel of the Bentley much more tightly than necessary. The area he had randomly parked his car in was the same where he had had breakfast this morning, which was perhaps his mind subconsciously hoping they could just start the day again without homicidal flora this time. Behind him, somebody honked angrily at Crowley, probably because the demon was completely blocking the narrow side street with his Bentley, but he didn't care. The person doing the honking wouldn't start honking again soon, anyway, mostly because his horn wouldn't work anymore and when he'd open up the front of the car to check why, he'd find out this was because the motor of his Mercedes had mysteriously turned into an enraged bobcat.

A few moments later Crowley found that the screams of the human behind him and the yowls of the feline were already working on calming his nerves.

Okay. The demon crossed his arms and sank back into the drivers seat. What _could_ it have been? Demonic for sure. He had to admit, the holy water didn't really make sense, but if this _had_ been Aziraphale's side at work, there would have been a lot more direct smiting (and a lot more righteous asshattery). Demons, then. Could it have been a simple prank? Or something more sinister? Crowley knew that hell and especially Hastur weren't especially fond of him. But...even if the power level suggested a Duke of hell or even something higher, this wasn't exactly Hastur's style. It was almost... _human_ -level kind of imaginative.

Crowley's eyes narrowed. Should he tell Aziraphale about this? If this wasn't Hastur, he should be able to deal with it himself. If this _was_ the Duke, however...

Crowley turned the key in the ignition again. The Bentley sprang to life.

This was _his_ city. He wouldn't run as long as he didn't know for certain that this was indeed Hastur and not some other demon upstart. Perhaps later he'd tell Aziraphale about it, but right now, decision made, hell's field agent looked at the driver that had previously honked at him and now was begging a feral bobcat not to widdle all over his expensive laptop, and decided he felt like a cupcake and a chai.

xxx

Back in the book shop, Sam was still being proffered the horrible paperback, though he avoided looking at it. The covers had started out not resembling him or Dean at all, but, creepily, somehow the godawful illustration artist seemed to be catching on now. What had began as basically shirtless Conan the Barbarian and Rambo, Vampire Hunter, lounging on, over and around the Impala had gradually come to actually resemble Sam and Dean themselves. Sadly, their habit to usually walk around fully clothed still seemed to have bypassed the artist's accuracy entirely.

(Dean had remarked that any hunter walking around topless and in skin tight jeans was probably either weaponless or carrying their concealed weapons in their arse. Sam had pointed out that to most people believable realism and attention to practical detail were maybe not the main selling points of _Supernatural_. Dean had replied that in that case, the next time he was doing some sort of pin-up pose on the cover he would like to store some weapons in the _illustrator's_ arse and Sam had declared the topic closed).

The younger Winchester grimaced and looked back at the face of the equally unhappy-looking book seller again. The man had curious light blue eyes, he noticed, their gaze like a strange juxtaposition of kindness and at the same time an impression that if you looked deeper you would find steel, or possibly fire. And they looked _old_...

Sam shook his head just slightly and broke the eye contact, suddenly irrationally worried that this guy could maybe also read minds.

He licked his lips. Maybe honesty would work.

"I'm sorry, I really need these books. Please. It's...important," he finished somewhat lamely, but at least Fell looked like he believed that Sam was telling the truth.

If only he wasn't also looking like Sam had just told him he had just run out of puppies to kick and was now moving on to baby penguins.

"Or..." the younger Winchester took a breath. "If it's alright, maybe I could just copy some pages instead?"

And it was like a little sun had just risen in the book store.

"Why, certainly! I'll get you some paper right away." Fell had instantly cheered up and curiously seemed to lighten the whole shop with it. "There's a table in the back you could work on," he said, indicating a rickety wooden construction through a small door. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Er." Sam said. "I was more thinking of...you wouldn't have a photocopier? Or a...scanner...?" He trailed off as he slowly, gradually seemed to realize that there was only one piece of electronic equipment in the store, and it was a PC that looked like it might have been used during the moon landing.

The book store owner blinked at him. "Have a what, dear?"

Oh, _brother._

xxx

For some people, finding a single (even if possibly demonic) individual in the city of London when you had no name, no address and no personal info whatsoever about them, might have seemed an impossibility. But these people weren't hunters, and even more specifically, weren't Dean Winchester.

The older of the two brothers was currently walking along the street where he and Sam had earlier sat down for breakfast before this day had started to literally go to hell. Dean was currently also trying to recall everything he could about the creature he had glimpsed so briefly in the flower shop. He thought it had been a dark-haired, slim figure in a tight-fitted suit, caucasian and European-looking, but perhaps a slightly darker skin tone than he or Sam. Dean exhaled, his hands touching the fake FBI ID in his pocket out of habit, even if he wasn't sure whether that one would even be useful at all here.

Where was a James Bond licence when you needed one?

Dean looked around, eyes searching for the café they had fled from earlier today. He was a bit wary of being recognized, but he thought he remembered now that the Bentley had been parked there earlier. Maybe the base of the demon or whatever it was could be found around here.

Then he froze. Because the Bentley was _still_ there. Or more likely, there again. The older Winchester's eyes quickly roved over his surroundings, methodically and efficiently. Someone or something closeby was giving him the creeps. Was he being watched? It didn't feel like it, but somewhere...somewhere around here there had to be...

Green eyes narrowed.

There.

On the other side of the street. _Him._

Dean instinctively stepped back into a house entrance, watching the figure while his mind was racing as he tried to work out what he should do next. The (probable) demon, still wearing the same meatsuit as he had in the shop, was striding down the street and now seemed to have stopped in front of a small cake shop. He looked around. Dean tensed.

And then grew increasingly confused as the assumed demon reached into his pocket to produce a coin and a tube of what seemed to be glue, and then went to stick said coin to the pavement floor.

"What." Dean said aloud.

xxx

Sam's head was slowly, but surely, developing that specific headache that suggested if he had to read yet another book on lore, he was going to set something on fire. But he couldn't stop now. He had found accounts of... _something_ in London. And elsewhere. But he wasn't quite sure what, exactly. Sometimes it was called a Serpent. Sometimes a demon. Dean had said something about snake eyes, hadn't he? A snake demon, then? Sam groaned. Neither of the Winchesters had ever encountered anything but demons that were just human souls twisted over hellfire – nothing but "ghosts with an ego" as Dean had put Crowley down once. The younger Winchester worked on, scribbling on the paper the book shop owner had given him, occasionally cross-checking things on his phone. He just wished half of the pages of supernatural activity in London wouldn't eventually start talking about aliens and some sort of phonebox.

xxx

15 minutes. It had been _fifteen minutes,_ and Dean was starting to get _cold._

The potential demon, on the other hand, wearing sunglasses for no reason in the middle of _winter,_ was sitting cozy-warm between the charcoal heaters of the cake shop outdoor tables and eating a muffin. And snickering every time someone tried and failed to pick up the freaking coin he had glued to the floor. A woman was at the moment having a go, scrabbling at the thing before realizing that it was glued on and impossible to pick up, and then seemed to pretend to have been trying to tie her shoe the whole time. Another pedestrian not paying attention tripped over her while she was kneeling and gave an angry exclamation, to which the kneeling woman spat something equally vitriolic back at her. It ended with both women stalking off angrily, and the demon in the café now giggling into his girly foam tea thing. 

Dean currently thought he couldn't believe this.

xxx

"Tea, dear?"

"Oh. Thank you," Sam replied, pleasantly surprised as the steaming mug was sat down beside him by the strange owner. He sniffed at it briefly, and then took a cautious sip. It was actually really nice.

"You're welcome." Fell smiled at him mildly. "It's nice when boys your age know how to enjoy a good cup of tea nowadays," he said, somewhat absent-mindedly patting Sam on the head as he disappeared with the tray again.

The younger Winchester blinked.

All his clothes had gotten drenched today. He was down to wearing his FBI suit. Men in suits did not get _patted._

Least of all not by other men, and also, no one but Ellen or Bobby had called him 'boy' in a while and the book store owner looked younger than both of those two. Sam was approaching _thirty_ , for Heaven's sake. Just how old compared to him did this book store owner think he _was_?

xxx

Instead of standing around and being cold in a house entrance, Dean Winchester was now standing around and being cold in a park. The older of the two brothers did not think of this situation as a vast improvement.

"Hey. The geese are flying low over Moscow."

Mostly because this particular park also seemed to be inhabited by a collection of absolutely raving lunatics.

"Piss. Off," Dean growled at the man in the trench coat (that so sadly wasn't Cas) and the stranger flinched and scrambled back through the bushes that he had come from. Dean grunted and turned back toward observing his target again.

What _was_ this guy planning?

After he had finished his snack at the cake shop, the man in the black suit had stood up and started ambling away, leaving the coin glued to the floor. Dean had decided to follow him, even if he only did that because he couldn't really come up with anything else. The (probable) demon hadn't demonstrated any particular hellish demeanour yet, apart from the ridiculous coin prank and now apparently leaving the café without paying (judging from the angry gasp of the waitress soon after). But, even if possibly demonically motivated, a dine-and-dash wasn't exactly an action that warranted Ruby's knife between the ribs. And besides, it wasn't even like Dean would have had any opportunity to do that, even if he had wanted to. From where he had found the guy at the cake shop, all the way to the park Dean had trailed him to, everywhere had been crawling with people and CCTV cameras. Europe, and in particular London, was just too. Damn. Crowded.

And now they had been here in this way-too-busy park for what felt like another eternity, the demon trying to call someone on his cell phone a couple of times and, going by his annoyed expression every time only getting the voice mail. Dean was watching him standing at the lake while he himself had hung back in the few trees. A few ducks had gathered around the demon expectantly, and were now quacking excitedly at his feet - again, this wasn't exactly helpful when you were trying to prove to yourself that the thing you were looking at was a satanic abomination. The man in the black suit had tried to shoo the ducklings insisting on sitting on his feet off, but was now apparently resigned to his fate. As was Dean. And so the minutes had passed, with one demon getting molested by ducks and one hunter by strange men in trenchcoats, waiting for whatever person said demon was trying to reach and somehow Dean couldn't help but think this was the worst monster hunt he had ever been on. He hadn't even managed to catch a second, proper glimpse of the thing's eyes since they were now covered by the sunglasses. Absolutely _brilliant_.

"Sssh. At what time does the narwhal-?"

"God _dammit_!"

It was a fact unbeknownst to Dean Winchester, but the particular duck pond he was currently standing nearby actually also had a history of being a convenient meeting spot for agents of various organizations. Unfortunately that also meant that someone else was trying to ascertain whether the confused and increasingly ticked-off hunter was their secret contact every ten minutes.

"Yeah, you better run. Freak," Dean grunted after the rapidly retreating figure of the latest one, and then turned back to survey his target again.

Where there now only was a demon-shaped hole in the air and some confused ducks.

"Son of a _bitch_!" 

_To be continued..._


	5. Like A Bat Out Of Hell

**Chapter 5: Like A Bat Out Of Hell**

  


"Angel! You in?!" 

Sam startled at the shout from the entrance of the shop, and the _bang!_ from the door as it was flung inwards and bounced against the wall. The younger Winchester looked up from the last book he had been studying and squinted through the gaps in the shelves surrounding the table he sat at to get a better look at the new arrival. The man was moving a bit too fast, though, striding through the rickety book shop as if he owned the place and all Sam could see was something black, slender and expensive-looking sliding past. Also, for some reason the book-shop suddenly seemed like a lot less safe place to be... 

"Hey, angel!" the stranger called again. "Stop hiding under your dust collection and talk to me! It's important. Didn't you get my message to meet me at the pond?" 

"My dear!" Fell's voice finally answered, the owner of the book shop appearing down the staircase in a hurry. "Not so loud, I'm coming!" 

The man in the black suit still didn't sound pleased. Sam poked his head around a bookshelf and saw him standing with his back toward him, arms crossed as he talked to the approaching Fell. 

"I'll be as loud as I bloody want, I'm-" 

"I've got a customer." 

"...oh." Black suit guy paused. Then: 

"Well, throw him out." 

"What? Dear boy, I can't just-" Fell started to sputter, but Sam chose that moment to stand up and make his presence known to both. 

"It's alright, I was planning on leaving, anyway. Thank you very much for the tea." Sam was already grabbing his notes, phone and jacket, nodding at them and heading for the door. Blacksuit had half-turned around as he walked past and Sam wondered for a moment why on Earth someone would be wearing sunglasses in the middle of winter in the inside of a _store_ , but then mentally shrugged. Perhaps the guy was vision-impaired or something. 

Sam stepped out into the street, slipping on his brown cargo jacket that sadly didn't match his black suit at all and tried not to shiver from the cold air. That snow storm _had_ come out of no where. But then again at least one mystery had been solved. 

'Angel'.

'My dear'

_Yeah, no wonder that guy patted me on the head_. Sam absent-mindedly ran a hand through his hair. He had walked out of the bookshop that the Bentley was parked straight in front of, but because Crowley didn't want anyone to see it at the moment, Sam didn't. 

Instead, the younger Winchester picked up his phone as it started ringing, displaying Dean's name under the call sign. 

"Sam?" his older brother asked by way of greeting. "Let's meet back at the hotel. I've lost the bastard." 

xxx

Inside, Crowley was still staring after the young man that had just left the shop. When Sam walked off, he turned to Aziraphale and raised an eye brow.

"Are they interbreeding them with giraffes now, or what?"

"No, I'm fairly certain he was just an American," the angel said, before adding with a bit of a thoughtful look, "I think they eat more over there." 

Crowley's eyes narrowed. "What was he doing here? I think I've seen him somewhere before." 

Aziraphale gave a vague little wave as he walked over to the sofa in the back where he put the two cups he was carrying down. "I'm not sure, actually. It sounded like he was a student with a project. But yes, he did seem vaguely familiar..." 

Crowley irritably waved him off, instead opting to plunk down on the sofa himself opposite his friend. 

"Doesn't matter, anyway. Just make sure no one's coming in anymore. There's...things happening." 

"Oh? What kind of things?" Aziraphale asked, used to the cryptic nature of the demon he consorted with and also familiar enough with the subtle clues to recognize a rattled Crowley underneath. He poured them both wine that a moment ago had been tea. Crowley made a noise that could have been construed as a thanks if he hadn't been a demon, and took a sip before he spoke up. 

"I think," he said, "that someone is trying to _hunt_ me."

xxx

"Sorry," Sam said, "He did _what_?" 

Dean angrily yanked open their hotel room door and stomped inside. 

"I _told_ you. He sat in the café forever, and was watching people trying to pick up a coin he'd glued to the floor. After that he was vaguely menacing at ducks and then he literally disappeared into thin air."

"So you're saying...." Sam began, then paused. "What _are_ you saying?" 

"That in my opinion this isn't a demon but probably some sort of bastard love child of Gabriel and Balthazar, I don't know," Dean grunted, grabbing a beer and flinging himself into one of the grubby seats of the cheap hotel. "What about you? Found anything in the lore?" 

"Well..." Sam settled in the seat opposite his brother, getting out the crumpled papers of his notes. "I found a few things that might relate to what we have here. There was one passage that said that only very powerful demons called Dukes of hell are able to 'reverse the order of nature', like make plants turn on...well, creatures that eat plants."

"You do," Dean pointed out. "I don't." 

Sam didn't grace that one with a reply. "I didn't find anything much about snake-eyed monsters, though," he continued instead. "There...were some bits about a demon with yellow eyes, but I'm not sure whether those were about Azazel or a different one. Some of the passages were a bit strange." 

"So we're dealing with what's potentially a 'Duke of hell', then," Dean summed it up. "Fantastic."

xxx 

"So we're dealing with the Winchester brothers," Alastair grumbled. "Fantastic." 

"What _is_ it with them?" Hastur asked, irritated but also seemingly intrigued by just what it could be that was putting Alastair out so much. "They're just ordinary mortals, are they not?" 

Alastair sighed, wondering a bit how he could put it to the duke so that he would understand. He turned back toward him. 

"You sound British," the torture expert said finally. "Are you aware of the expression 'a spanner in the works', then?" 

"Yes," Hastur replied with a frown, a bit unsure of where this was going. "It's an idiom mortals use to indicate an obstruction to a plan going smoothly, isn't it?" 

"Exactly, your grace," Alastair smiled in a way that wasn't funny, "And let me put it this way, in comparison to a 'spanner in the works', those two brothers are a blessed _exploding home improvement store_."

xxx

" _Hunt_ you?" Aziraphale repeated, raising an eye brow. "That hasn't happened for a couple of centuries," he pointed out. "I rather thought witch hunts and excorcisms had gone out of fashion. Bit messy all of them were.“ 

"Yeah, I know," Crowley replied, before staring into his glass of red wine. "Thing is, I'm not exactly sure who it even is. I was in a flower shop today and got attacked with what felt like demon magic, but then there was..." he grimaced. " _Holy water_ as well, so I'm wondering whether it might have been something else." He looked up again. "No one on your side has put a hit out on me, have they?" 

"Not that I'm aware of, no." 

"Thought so." Crowley looked back into his drink again. "Though I'm also wondering whether it had anything to do with the two humans in that store," he added absent-mindedly.

"Two humans?" Now Aziraphale sounded a little worried.

"There were two other shoppers," Crowley explained irritably. "The plants started attacking me and I was fighting for my existence and I _think_ the begonias were trying to get to them, too. I didn't get much of a look at them when I escaped through the back door."

"They were two _humans_?" Aziraphale asked again, though it now sounded more incredulous, shading into accusatory. "In a shop with possessed, murderous plants? And you _left them there_?!" 

"They seemed to be doing fine!"

When Aziraphale's offended stare didn't seem to get any better at this defence, Crowley finally dropped his eyes and mumbled, "Besides, there haven't been any reports of weird deaths yet. I checked," he grumbled, like he wasn't particularly pleased with himself for that. 

"...I see," Aziraphale said, sighing in a way that meant feathers were being smoothed down again. He examined his wine glass. "So, it's holy water and demonic plants, then?" 

"I think so," Crowley said. "Doesn't seem to fit together, right? And the demon magic was stronger than mine. I couldn't even properly defend myself. I think it might be..." There was a scowl. "Hastur." 

"Ah." Aziraphale winced in understanding.

"Yeah," Crowley confirmed glumly. "But then again, the strength would fit, but the style doesn't." Crowley took a breath. "And then a human was tailing me at the cafe and the park as well." 

"Anyone you recognized?"

"...not completely sure," Crowley hedged. "I _thought_ it might have been the same guy from the shop, though." 

"But you're not sure?" 

"No," Crowley admitted. "At some point I was considering it wasn't even a human but another demon possessing a body." 

"Oh." Aziraphale's face set into a prim expression of reprehension again. The angel did not approve at all of highjacking a vessel without their consent."And was he posssessed?" 

Crowley shook his head. "No." 

"Well, at least that's something," Aziraphale said, but was apparently still a bit upset by the thought of someone stealing a body, because he proceeded to stir some sugar into his wine next. "Are you sure he wasn't, though? Especially if it's Hastur, you said that demons outranking you could also conceal their aura from you." 

Crowley for some reason now looked curiously fascinated by a stain on the sofa. 

"Uhm, yeah. Pretty sure the guy wasn't possessed." 

"How so?" 

"Er. More wine?" 

"Crowley..." Azirphale's tone had now taken on that particular tone that suggested a smiting was not too far out of reach if the other didn't stop dancing away from a particular subject. "Exactly _how_ did you find out that he wasn't possessed by a demon?" 

Crowley shifted in his seat again, looking slightly uncomfortable. "I. Uh. Imighthavebrieflytriedtopossesstheguymyself." The words came out in a tumble, but unfortunately, angelic hearing was just that good. 

" _Really_ , Crowley!" 

"Come on, it would only have been one itty bitty teeny-tiny possession!" 

"Just his big toe, I presume?" Aziraphale asked with a touch of sarcasm and Crowley scowled. 

"It doesn't matter anyway, because I _didn't,_ " he said, determinedly. "Well. Couldn't," he corrected himself. Hell's field agent could still remember trying, when he had noticed that particular human hiding away on the other side of the street, watching him. He had been good at it, too, Crowley had to admit, considering he had to have been there a while before the demon had noticed him. Crowley had relaxed then, let his own body slink somewhat deeper into the café chair and close his eyes behind the sunglasses while his consciousness slipped out of its physical shell, invisible to mortal gazes. Honestly, erupting from somewhere as black smoke was for amateurs.

Instead, Crowley's presence had swept across the street swiftly and quietly, passing oblivious humans strolling along the sidewalks. Their souls shone in their vessels, each one of them easy pickings for him in his current state - some of them, the ones perhaps a bit more faithful than others would have been harder to possess, but Crowley knew that if he had forced himself entry, their bodies would have been his. (Not that he particularly wanted to - to him, posessions had always seemed just a tad unhygienic, like the equivalent of using someone else's toothbrush). But when he had tried to get closer to the man watching him, within arm's reach of the see-through outline of his physical body, the human's soul burning an unusually fierce white inside him and Crowley reached out with his essence to discern whether it had been recently touched by another demon - there had been a double resistance repelling him so hard it had almost knocked him back into his own body before he could get a hold of himself.

There had been something imprinted on the soul, yes, but it definitely hadn't felt demonic. More like the opposite, actually. Crowley thought it had looked like a mark, a mark that had been giving off a fiercely protective and territorial vibe, hovering over the brightly pulsing soul like its own personal guardian. Not that this would even have been necessary - mainly because the other thing barring his way had been a rune Crowley hadn't seen in quite a while. It was a five-pointed star encircled by a burning sun, which in this world of souls now hovered like a shield between him and the mortal's body, blocking any access and hope to find out more until Crowley had retreated into his own physical form again. "The guy must have been wearing an anti-possession sigil somewhere on him. Which could mean a hunter. But at least that'd mean that no one else could have been controlling him, either." 

"Well, that's....something I suppose," Aziraphale said at last, though it didn't sound like the angel could make a lot of sense of what the demon had been telling him, either. "What do you want to do, then?" he asked. 

"For the moment?" Crowley asked, emptying the last of his wine. "Stay here, I think. If it really should turn out to be just a hunter, I can deal with that. I asked some of my old contacts to scrounge up info, see whether I can't find out who's behind this. They should have something for me tomorrow morning." He stood up and brushed some dust and sofa lint off his pristine trousers. Whoever said cleanliness was next to godliness clearly had never seen Aziraphale and his dust farm that he called a bookshop. "Mainly, I wanted to warn you," Crowley said. "Because if it _is_ a hunter, I hear that they're not too fond of angels, either. Maybe just keep an eye out for strange things, okay?" 

  


"I will, dear," Aziraphale replied and if the two stayed together in the doorframe of the shop after that just a few moments too long, there was no one around to see why that was. 

xxx

It was past midnight and it had only gotten colder since the sun had gone down. Dean and Sam were currently sitting in the parked Impala, huddled up because even in the car it was cold enough that they could see their breath in the air. They had spent the rest of the day trying to figure out their next step, and had determined that the most promising lead was still the guy in the black suit, whatever he was, and the best lead to find _him_ was that goddamn Bentley. It had taken some time to track the car down, mostly because Sam had first found out that the Bentley wasn't even _registered_ , and then that even with advanced hacking skills, trying to access the footage of the ubiquitous security cameras proved impossible. ('Who has designed this camera system, some kind of insane, mastermind genius?' Sam had asked at one point, exasperated). Luckily, they had soon struck paydirt on another site – classic automobile lovers of London seemed to have made it their hobby to take pictures of old cars around town and Sam had found several that showed the Bentley they were looking for parked in an upperclass residential area called Southbank. Which explained why now two decidedly non-upperclass men were sitting in a black Impala, and chowing down on two burgers, one salad and a pie while watching one apartment in particular. 

"Sure that's the one?" Sam asked, his eyes fixed on the building that housed several spacious, modern flats with large windows. The curtains on all of them were drawn shut. 

"Fairly sure," Dean replied. "I saw him come out while you were gone getting food." 

"What?! Why didn't you grab him?!" 

"He was only out there for like a second," Dean defended himself. "Anyway, at least we know he's in there now when we break in later." 

Sam frowned. "What was he doing outside?" 

Dean shifted a bit in his seat. "He...threw a plant away." 

"A plant?" Sam repeated. "Like, like one of the ones that attacked us?" 

"Well, _maybe,"_ Dean said, though it didn't sound like he thought so. "Didn't look like it would, though. Was only a very small carmelia." 

"And he threw it in the trash?" Sam asked, looking at the garbage can. "Should we...uh, check it out?" 

"I don't think it could be still dangerous," Dean seemed to be picking his words carefully. "It looked like the bottom of the plant had been encased in cement. Like a...mafia killing." 

Sam looked at him. "What."

"Look, the carmelia looked scared, man!" 

Sam took a breath. "Okay." He took a few more seconds to stare out of the window again. Then; "Okay, Dean, are we _sure_ -?" 

"Look, something is weird about that black suit guy and if he is a monster, we kill it, alright?!" 

"Okay, okay, fine!" Sam held up his hands. "With you on that. We just haven't had a demon yet that plays _coin pranks_ and goes on and feeds ducks or whatever." 

"And I'm telling you he _is_ a demon or some other freak. I saw his eyes. And the way he disappeared on me in the park." 

"Yeah, okay." Sam looked at his phone. "But we've been here for more than three hours now waiting for an opportunity to break in and it's two am already, don't you think-" 

And it was at that moment that Sam Winchester was interrupted when the apartment they were watching burst into bright, roaring flames. 

"Wha-?" None of the brothers had had time to do anything else but stare, before the largest window of the top flat already _exploded_ , and a burning, flailing figure burst from it, falling down to the ground in a shower of flames and feathers and glass. 

And then there was the howling, and more windows burst apart as invisible _things_ seemed to crash through _them_ and Dean's face showed that special kind of seasick-like terror that only barking without a dog can summon forth in those that have once been chased by hell hounds. 

The figure crashed onto the wet asphalt, falling from a distance that no one should have survived. Dull thuds followed around him, casting shadows were none should have been where the fire had lit the street as if night was terrible day. And then the man with the sunglasses in the still burning suit took off running, crashes and patches of nothing where dog-shaped creatures were, roaring at his heels. 

"...okay," said Sam, putting his salad down. "He _might_ not be human, then?"

  


_To be continued..._

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New season of SPN! And the first episode was so fantastic! :D Hope you liked this new chapter, too, and if you read, please review! :3


	6. Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

Chapter 6: Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This 

At one o' clock in the morning, lying in his comfy bed, Crowley had thought nothing might happen tonight after all. 

The second his apartment burst into flames and the hellhounds crashed through the door, _that_ theory (and the demon who had been considering it) went out the window. 

Crowley could feel his ankles splintering and his shins crack as he impacted on the asphalt, but it was adrenaline that dulled the pain and panicked demon magic that healed them almost immediately as he took off running. He had briefly considered scrambling into the Bentley, but dismissed it – not only, if truthful, because they might have gotten to him before he got in, but also because even if those monsters should drag him to hell, a part of him really didn't think his poor Bentley deserved to share that fate. 

And so, in the middle of the night in Southbank, one panicking, fully-fledged demon, a horde of foaming at the mouth invisible hell beasts, and two men in a '67 Impala with the steering wheel on entirely the wrong side for this country, were barreling through moonlit London on their way to Soho. 

It said something about the city that this wasn't even too far out of the ordinary. 

xxx

It was a good thing the body of a demon would never tire, or need such mundane things as breathing, if its owner didn't want it to. Crowley had put out the flames on his suit with an afterthought as he was running through the blessed snow-drizzle he himself had summoned and that was now making the pavement wet and slippery. His feet were pounding through the empty streets and his blood was rushing in his ears, but neither of them was loud enough to drown out the howls of the hellhounds. He couldn't try to will himself elsewhere as he was pretty sure that whoever had sent the dogs would also have ways to send them straight after him. No. There was only one place on Earth he could turn to for safety now. 

Crowley crashed into the door of the book store he knew better than the back of his hand and started banging on the door desperately.

"ANGEL! _OPEN UP!_!“ 

Behind him, he thought he could hear the hell-hounds gaining. Also, there was the noise of squealing brakes and then running feet, but that didn't really interest Crowley, seeing as there were more pressing matters to attend to.

"ANGEL! Dammit! Open up or I'm about to be dog food, going to hell LITERALLY in a hand basket because whatever remains when they've finished with me won't be much BIGGER -!“ 

_"Shield your eyes!“_

Crowley thought he had felt the jaw of one of the hounds snap shut just behind the bottom of his trousers as the door finally opened, and he had just enough time to fling himself inside past Aziraphale in the doorway and then cower and shield his face with his arms. And he needed to, because behind him, he could feel the angel's grace lashing out, searing and beautiful and utterly without mercy. It was burning into his back both deadly and so familiar it hurt, and the last thing he heard of the hounds were a few last, desperate howls and then a whimper that faded into nothing. 

When two hunters stumbled onto the very same street less than a minute later, the only hint that not everyone was asleep yet was a single light inside the book shop's window. 

xxx

"Dammit!“ Dean cursed as he had to slam on the brakes and then both of them burst out of the car, knife, shotgun and holy water held at the ready as the two Winchesters took up pursuit on foot after the demon/snake monster/freaky plant fetishist had run through a side street that was far too narrow for any car. 

And then came to stand on a completely empty street with no sign of hellhounds whatsoever. 

"There! That shop!“ Dean pointed to the single house in the street whose windows were still lit, and Sam immediately knew why. In front of it were six black smudges on the pavement that could have been the same size as a large dog, if you had decided it should burn to a crisp.

Dean was at the door of the shop in an instant, banging on the wood as hard as he could. 

"Hey! Open the door!“ 

"We're closed! Please come back at another time!“ A voice called back from inside, sounding rather polite, and rather like Mr. Fell – Sam only now realized that this was the same book shop he had visited earlier in the day. 

"You might be in incredible danger!“ Sam called out, also trying his luck while Dean was attempting to shove the door in. 

"Oh no, we're perfectly all right, thank you!“ the voice called back, now also sounding rather British. 

"Angel! Shut them up _now_ or-!“ a second voice cut in, and before Sam could recognize it as Fell's friend, or Dean had had more time than to do anything but stare at his brother and repeat " _Angel_?!“, Fell said: 

"Oh all right, all right, dear, just one moment-“

And then there was a single, blinding _flash!_ and both Sam's as well as Dean's world disappeared into instant, sweeping blackness. 

xxx

Dean Winchester woke up. He had dreamed something about snakes wearing sunglasses, Tibetan monks tunneling into his motel room and the world being full of dolphins and the Sound of Music for some reason. 

He wanted to be back in America so badly. 

Dean uprighted himself abruptly on his elbows as the confusion set in when he realized he had no idea why he even was _in_ a bed, or how he had come to be in it. A tartan night gown fell open over his bare chest at the sudden movement, a nightgown that he couldn't remember putting on – or even having been in the cheap hotel room. And on second thought - where were his _clothes_? A sudden panic let Dean yank the blanket aside and sit up fully, because, even more important than clothes, where was _Sam?_

The second bed in the hotel room was empty. Still unable to remember anything past yesterday afternoon when he and his brother had been sitting in this very same room, discussing plans, Dean was on his feet and about to start a frantic search for his cell phone to try and call Sam when at least that worry dissolved itself as his kid brother simply stepped out of the bathroom. 

"Uh. Sammy?“ asked Dean, voice still rougher than usual from sleep, but sounding a bit unsure at the same time. His brother appeared to have just taken a shower, ridiculous hair tousled in a way that always made Dean wish they'd just for once have a case with a possessed lawn mover he could shove Sam in front of. He was dressed haphazardly in a still unbuttoned jeans and the shirt from yesterday hanging open, the black tattoo that assured Dean whatever had happened to them it couldn't have been possession still visible in plain sight. The older Winchester could feel a lot of tension leaving his body as he could at least see that his brother was obviously unhurt (albeit still the walking corpse he usually was before the first coffee of the day.)

At a last glance, he also noticed that Sam appeared to be wearing slippers with little mooses printed on them. 

"...hey. You're up,“ Sam said by way of greeting and then leaned in the doorway of the bathroom. "Nice robe,“ he commented. Dean shot him an automatic look that dared him to add anything. 

"Yeah. No idea where it came from and I wouldn't have put the the thing on if somebody wasn't forcing me at gun point,“ the older hunter said. "Sam, what the hell happened? I have a giant black-out where last night is supposed to be. And _not_ in a good way.“

"I...don't know,“ Sam admitted, sitting down heavily on his own bed and running a hand through his hair. "I just woke up half an hour ago. You seemed to be fine, so I let you sleep. But I can't remember anything either.“ 

Trying not to be too alarmed yet, Dean nodded, taking this information in. "Okay. So let's try and see what's the last thing we actually _can_ remember.“ 

"I think...“ his younger brother sounded a bit hesitant, "We were...chasing this guy, right?“ 

"Hell hounds. There were hell hounds,“ Dean then said, with the voice of a man who would probably never forget that particular barking any time soon. "And then...I don't know. But yeah, we were hunting something, I remember that too. That demon with the yellow eyes.“ 

"And there were hell hounds involved, yeah,“ Sam said, eyes narrowing. "But...something about that doesn't seem right. I don't think they were chasing us. I think I can remember chasing after _them._ “ 

"You sure? Sounds like the worst idea ever,“ Dean, who didn't know the plot of season 8 yet, grunted. 

"Pretty sure,“ Sam said. "I can't remember much else, but I think at the end there was, like, this explosion. Or like lightning, maybe. No idea idea what happened just before.“ 

"Something evil messing with us, definitely,“ Dean growled, cursing under his breath.“Dammit. I _hate_ mind-screwy things.“ He stood up and started to head over to the bathroom. Looking back at his brother who was still staring into space with an expression of severe concentration, he added: "Don't strain yourself too hard, okay? We both know there's things you re probably better off _not_ remembering anyway. Whatever monster we're hunting, it's not worth that. “ 

"Yeah...“ Sam replied, a bit absent-mindedly, but after Dean's last few sentences actually turned around and looked at his brother curiously, as if a new idea had just occurred to him.

"Wait. Dean, maybe...whatever did this to us...it might even not mean us any harm. Yet.“ 

"What?“ asked his brother flatly, his voice the tone a man would use who knew his world just didn't work that way. "Are you suggesting something may _not_ be trying to kill us?“ 

"Well, _maybe,_ “ Sam insisted, standing up and gesturing at himself and Dean and the hotel room in general. "Like Death. _He_ screwed with my mind to protect me. I mean...whatever this thing did to us last night, it knocked us both out cold. Or put us to sleep, anyway. At its mercy. And all that happens is that today we wake up in our beds, practically unharmed.“ 

"Unharmed except for any sense of style, maybe,“ Dean grumbled, shrugging off the tartan gown with more force than necessary. Beneath it, boxer shorts with the same plaid pattern became visible, which produced a look of horror. 

"Sam? I feel violated.“ 

"Take it as an indicator that we're not in some Djinn's perfect dream world,“ Sam suggested. "Whatever zapped us back here also took care of our own clothes, by the way.“ 

Dean's gaze followed Sam's and came to land on a small pile consisting of his clothing on the dresser, shirts and jeans all appearing neatly ironed and folded. Dean only now noticed that the same had to have happened to Sam's stuff, because his younger brother was now wearing the same ensemble that yesterday had still been drenched in holy pond water. He picked the topmost shirt up and sniffed at it.

"Someone put me in tartan pajamas today and my shirt smells like lavender. This is a whole new level of weird, even for us.“ 

Sam, who wasn't about to divulge that _he'd_ woken up in a night _dress_ instead of pajama pants, shrugged. 

"Point is, nothing really bad happened. _And_ I've been checking the news. Nothing about anyone maimed by animals in the night either. So whatever took us out and zapped us back, almost looks like it took out the hell hounds and sent them back, too. Maybe we're not dealing with our usual monster here.“ 

Dean grunted, but still didn't seem entirely convinced. 

Then he froze.

"...wait,“ he said. "We didn't go out on foot last night. We took the Impala.“ 

Sam blinked, remembering it as soon as Dean had said it. "Yeah.“ He frowned. "That's right. What-?“

Before he could finish his sentence, Dean had already dashed over to the window of their room that looked out over the parking lot of the hotel. Sam didn't need to look outside for himself to know what his big brother roaring like a wounded tiger meant. 

"It's gone, then?“ Sam asked, but was largely drowned out by his sibling's much louder 

"THEY TOOK MY DAMN CAR!“ 

"Dean,“ Sam tried to be the reasonable one here. Really, he tried. "Calm _down_. I think I remember we got out of it at some point. It's probably standing around somewhere.“

"My BABY! All alone in a foreign country!“

"Dean-“

"They drive on the wrong side here, Sammy! She's probably scared to death!“ 

Sighing and abandoning the logical route of 'Dean, cars don't have feelings', and instead choosing the well-trodden path of all siblings of insane people, Sam went for soothing reassurement instead. "Yeah. Right. It's okay, Dean. We will find...her...,and if we don't, the police will and we can get her out of the pound. Better than that, it might even give us a hint where we were and maybe we can pick up the trail again. This is _good_ thing, Dean,“ Sam said, trying to speak as slowly and well-enunciated as possible. 

"Speak for yourself,“ his big brother grumbled, but at least his feathers appeared to be smoothed again. 

"Right.“ Sam rose from the bed and began buttoning up his shirt. "Let's have breakfast and we'll call the pound while we eat, okay?“ 

"Fine,“ Dean muttered and went to grab his toothpaste to disappear into the bathroom. As he bent over to fish it from the chaos of the bed side table though, he paused as he suddenly spotted something on Sam's bed. 

Something large and white that was severely crumpled and half-way stuffed under the pillow as if somebody had been trying to hide it. Something large, white and...- Dean pulled it out - ... _frilly_.

"Dude?“ he turned to Sam, still holding the thing aloft with both hands. "Is that a night dress? Did you wake up in a _night dress_?“ 

"...shut up.“

_To be continued..._

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New SPN season is shaping up to be great fun, which is brilliant, because writing this fc becomes a lot more entertaining this way :D Your comments help, too, of course - if you read, please review? :3


	7. A Wanted Man

  


There was silence in the book shop after Aziraphale's grace had lashed out a second time, enveloping the two eager young men and whisking them away god knows where, leaving the street empty of both hellhounds and humans. 

Crowley seemed to sag a little in on himself, energy leaving him after the immediate danger was over, and the demon traipsed over to the familiar armchair and dropped himself into it. Aziraphale followed suit with, of course, two cups of tea in his hands. Crowley accepted one gratefully. 

"So...someone sent hellhounds after you,"Aziraphale said, looking faintly worried but also as sympathetic as ever. "You think it's the same one who let those plants attack you?" 

"Probably,"Crowley said miserably. He looked up. "Can you demon-proof the shop?“

"Whenever I demon-proof the shop, you complain,"Aziraphale pointed out. 

"Fair point."Crowley looked into his cup of tea like it was the beverage's fault his apartment had burst into flame today. 

"Crowley, _what_ is going on? Who sent the hell hounds to chase you and what is it with those two boys? Because I've recognized one of them. He was the tall one here this morning.“

"And the compact one was the one who stalked me at the park,"Crowley grumbled. "All I can say is that I've absolutely no idea what on earth those two humans think they're doing, but I've asked around and I think it definitely _is_ Hastur out to get me. Not alone, either – he's gotten one of the human demons to help him out. Explains the novelty of his strategies,"Crowley added the last sentence with just a little bit of contempt, because Aziraphale knew his demon friend prided himself on his originality despite having been created as an angel. Crowley took another sip of his tea. "Don't think I know that one too well, though,"he said. "Alastair, I think."

Aziraphale shook his head a little. "Can't say I've heard of him." 

"Probably not his real name. To be honest, 'Alastair' was a bit of a fad name among young demons some centuries ago."Crowley shrugged. "Not many ways to gain respect as a fresh-born demon if you're still using your human name which was probably 'Bob' during the time you died." 

"Or if you started out as 'Crawly',"the angel suggested innocently. 

"Shut up, angel."

"So, what do we do?" 

This automatic assumption of 'we'. There was a part of Crowley that felt a bit warm at that word, but the bigger part that was all demon would probably have thrown itself into hell before he showed it on his face. Crowley took a breath. "Well, I can't stay here much longer,"he said. "I have a feeling Hastur and his friend are on a solo mission, but just in case the upper management _does_ somehow figure out what is going on and has a look at this, I can't be seen hiding in the bookshop of the enemy."

Aziraphale (who personally didn't think he could ever consider someone owning a bookshop an enemy) nodded. "That's true. If they decided to attack here, I wouldn't want it catching on fire again, either."

"No,"Crowley agreed. "The wisest thing might be for me to leave for a while."

There was a flash of...something behind those blue eyes, something that almost made Crowley want to take back what he said, tell Aziraphale he wouldn't go away, he'd stay, but then the moment was gone, and the angel only nodded in understanding. 

"America?“

"...no,"Crowley shook his head. "Not America. I'm not exactly on top of things, but for the past six years, everyone over there seems to have gone entirely bonkers. Maybe India. Set up a few more callcenters,"he said it with a grin, although you could tell his heart wasn't quite in it. 

"I see,"Aziraphale said, though his gaze seemed a bit distant. Then he looked back at Crowley and there was a small, slightly sad smile in his eyes.

"...want to spend the night before you leave?"

xxx

"So...we're dealing with a monster who has a thing for putting you in dresses."Dean said right as they were sitting down to breakfast, before adding with a smirk, "Are we sure this isn't Becky?“

Sam shot him a look that suggested if he ever became the antichrist, Dean would be the first one back in the pit. 

"It wasn't a dress, Dean, it was a _night_ _shirt_."

"You keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better. Just don't come crying to me if it knocks us out again and you end up in lingerie,"the older Winchester replied as he ignored his younger brother's eye roll, shoveling eggs and sausages onto his plate. 

Then he blinked. 

"Actually, if that happens it'll probably be _me_ who starts crying if I have to see you in anything lacy. I'm telling you, we're dealing with some sort of demon-slash-insane prankster combo here."

"No," Sam replied, "Dean, when I said 'night shirt', I meant it seriously. Like, that wasn't girl clothing, that was how men dressed at night. Like...200 years ago. Whatever sent us back to our beds last night might actually seriously have wanted to make us comfortable."

Again, his older brother gave him a look that suggested the idea of a supernatural creature trying to make him _comfortable_ did not compute at all. "So we re dealing with what, then?"he asked, face creased in a frown. "A fashion victim from the middle ages?" 

"We're also dealing with a snake-eyed freak whose idea of demonic wiling is not paying for his coffee," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "This case is _weird_." 

"And we don't even know what it _wants_."Sam went on, running his hands through his hair. "I mean, first it seems like it was trying to gank us in that cafe, maybe poison our food or something, then it's possessed homicidal plants, _then_ it ignores us and instead does coin tricks, _then_ it gets chased by hell hounds? Like, _hell hounds_? Were they Crowley's? Like, did that demon officially snap and Crowley is trying to get it back into hell? Is there such a thing as demon insanity?" the younger Winchester asked, words encompassing all of the circus show they had been enduring for the past few days tumbling out. "And _what_ is up is with that book shop? You gotta admit, the whole thing is just.... _bizarre_ ," Sam said (and for some reason, he had wanted to say 'ineffable'. It had to have been all that pouring over old texts yesterday). 

"I dunno."Dean shrugged. "But whatever it is, we kill it,"he said, reciting the ancient Winchester philosophy and violently stabbing his egg. 

"Hn,"Sam made a noise that didn't indicate complete agreement. "There's one other thing, though."

"Oh yeah?"

"I think the bookshop owner might be an angel."

Dean paused eating. "What."

"Think about it," Sam said, "What else could have dispelled the hell hounds? Also..." He took a breath. "He seemed kind of. Like. Angelic.“

"What, like a big bag of dicks?"

"No,"Sam shook his head. "Like, _proper_ angelic. Like in picture books. All....nice and stuff," he finished a bit helplessly. "Plus, the black suit guy called him 'angel' yesterday. I thought it was a nick name at the time."

"Snaky was in the shop?" Dean looked up abruptly. 

",,,yeah,"Sam said, a bit hesitant now that more and more bits and pieces were coming back to him. More blurry images of last night that he could compare to the clearer, brighter ones of the day before. "I think it was him, but I didn't recognize him at the time. He was also wearing sunglasses inside the shop, which was weird." 

"So, we have...what?" Dean frowned. "A demon of some sort and an angel working together? That sounds like something Cas should know about. Someone on his team is striking deals with hell."

"We don't quite know what is happening yet," Sam pointed out. "I think we should investigate first and once we've confirmed that it's really an angel and a demon, then we call him."

Dean gave his brother a long look. It didn't come as a surprise exactly – Sam had been a tad more distrustful when it came to Castiel than Dean for a while, now. 

"...fine."

"Good." Sam gave a curt nod. "Also, cops say they've got the Impala. I've asked them from where they towed it and it's actually the area I was in yesterday, too. So. Bail the car and then investigate?"

"Sure." Dean nodded. "Not a fan of this breakfast anyway. Who puts beans on _toast_?"

xxx

"My...my hellhounds...I...I _hand_ -raised them..."Hastur was currently looking at what had been his beasts from the pit not too long ago and looked as crestfallen as a demon possibly could. 

"Well, they're not dead,"Alastair pointed out a bit helplessly.

"THEY'RE WORSE THAN THAT!" the Duke roared. One of the adorable golden retriever puppys that the former hellhounds had been turned into by angelic grace, took that as an opporuntinty to pee on the floor. Another one tried to concole the obviously upset demon by affectionately nuzzling his ankle. 

"This is an _insult_ ,"Hastur seethed. "I can't even _kill_ them, because they'd just go to some sort of chewtoy-filled heaven,"he spat, pacing in his office among the litter. With an angry swipe of his hand they were gone, Hastur planning to have the puppies materialize on earth somewhere. He didn't even care where they went. He hoped it was a pressure cooker.

"What is Crowley even doing, bringing an angel in there?! How am I supposed to deal with _that_ as well?!" 

"Well,"Alastair was leaning against the wall and looking smug. "Believe it or not, I _have_ tangled with angels before...“

xxx

"Sir, you need to put a patch on your right headlight. It blinds other drivers." 

The police officer was patiently holding out a brown sticky patch and Dean was staring at it as if it was a bowl full of intestines. 

"Sir, your car is continental and therefore the lights will blind other drivers at night. Please put this patch on."

"Sure. Come _on_ , Dean,"vSam said, grabbing his older brother and steering him carefully to the driver's side, while paying the fine for getting towed and taking the sticker from the police officer to put it on the right headlight of the Impala. Dean inside the car muttered something about how the next time he would strike a deal with a crossroads demon it would be to sink Britain, and then Sam was slamming the door shut and telling Dean to drive before the police decided they'd like to keep the Winchester brothers behind bars just like their car. 

"My baby is wearing an eye patch now. I am not a happy man, Sammy," Dean said as they pulled out onto the London road, small snowflakes falling against the windshield. 

"You can pretend she's a pirate," Sam suggested absent-mindedly, while going through the papers he received when bailing out the Impala. "Okay, according to the cops this is the address from where they towed it," he said, showing it to Dean and typing the address into his phone for navigation. "I think I kind of recognize the streets here, too,"he said after a while, "This is where I came earlier for research." 

It had become apparent that the streets soon would be too narrow again for any kind of motorized traffic and Dean pulled up in a legal parking space this time. It was in front of what was clearly some sort of 'Den of Inequity' as Castiel would have put it and he raised an appreciative eye brow at Sam. "You came for research here? Classy," he suggested, and promptly earned the eye roll he had been aiming for.

"I _was_ looking for book shops with lore,"Sam stated, but then suddenly stopped and grabbed Dean's arm. "Wait."

"Wha-oh.“

Dean started, then stopped, too, staring at the alley Sam was looking at. 

"This side-street. We ran down it,"Sam said, looking through it. He could remember more clearly now that he saw it, could remember the light drizzle on his face that let his hair stick in eyes, the brick walls rushing past them as they were running...towards...

They were retracing their steps from last night in a half-jog now, midnight memories and daylight present giving them a curious double-vision as they dashed past Duck Lane, through somewhere funnily enough called 'Dean street', and then stopped dead in front of a book shop just off Chapel Road. 

"Dean!" Sam called out. "That is the book shop I was in yesterday, the one with the weird owner!"

"And it's also the one where the hell hounds disappeared last night," his brother replied grimly."Alright. I want some answers.“

xxx 

In demon circles it was already well-known that there wasn't much that could stop the Winchesters.

In this case, a rickety door and a 'Gone to Lunch' sign were doing a damn good job. 

"God-dammit!" Dean hissed under his breath and once again tried to shove the door in while outwardly not appearing to do so. Fortunately, there weren't any people on the street at the moment, "presumably kept inside by the _horrible_ weather," Dean had surmised with some sarcasm. Sam came back around the corner, a shake of his head indicating he hadn't had any success with finding a back door or window they could use to get in instead. Dean growled in frustration, thinking about trying the lockpicks again, when someone _did_ show up, but he looked neither angelic nor demonic. 

Well. 

Perhaps a bit angelic. 

"Whatever you're hunting in this store, you're doing a poor job of concealing your weapons," he said, piercing blue-green eyes under curly dark hair roving briefly and dismissively over all the places where guns and knives had been tucked into jeans and belts, but not pausing long enough to let the brothers get a word in edgewise, "If you're still going to attempt a break-in, I'd recommend in about twenty minutes, when my brother won't be recording you," he said in the same fast-spoken yet bored monotone, with a quick glance indicating the CCTV camera Sam and Dean hadn't even noticed until now. 

"It's a gap in his surveillance system he still hasn't worked out - must be getting sloppy," he said as if that for some reason explained everything. "I hope you'll manage to catch whatever it is," he added. "And I'd prefer it if you kept the supernatural nonsense out of my city in the future. It ruins clean crimes. Also hopelessly confuses Lestrade - although that can be achieved with anything more complicated than a theft of coffee creamer, obviously." 

And then he was already gone, grey coat with upturned collar swirling behind his tall, wiry form, and Sam and Dean were left completely flabberghasted, staring after him. 

"...what?“

"Wait, just _how_ did he-?!" 

And that was about as far as they got, because _then_ the door of the shop opened, and another tall man in a brown, pin-striped suit stepped out. 

"Hey!" Dean whirled around. "What are you doing in there?!"

"Oh, hello!" The unfamiliar man with the cheerful brown eyes smiled at them as if he for some reason couldn't be more pleased to see two totally confused hunters that had just been trying to break into a book shop. Then he frowned. 

"Wait, you're Sam and Dean Whatsit, right? You should be at the lake about now," he said, somehow managing to make his tone almost a bit accusing, as if the Winchesters had managed to be late for school. 

"...the hell, man?!" Dean managed, staring at the second Crazy British Person he had encountered in as many minutes. 

The man in the brown suit only nodded, as if he was now fairly convinced that what he was saying was right. 

"Yeeeeeah, the lake you were at yesterday! St James Park. Pretty sure about that, actually. And you should be there right now, otherwise you'll miss 'em."

"Now just wait a minute-!" Dean grabbed the man on his arm, intending to get some explanations right now, but the other managed to extract himself smoothly and gracefully, as if he were more than used to being grabbed by people stronger than him. He didn't seem to lose his good humour in the least. 

"Terribly sorry, but not much time to explain,"he said instead, giving them a small grimace. "There's a kind of...thing happening at the moment. Well. More like three things. Well. Three things and a lizard. _Again_. MARTHA!" He yelled the last word, shouting it back into the shop, and then turned back to the brothers. 

"Would you just tell Mr. Fell to _please_ stop messing around with dimensional portals in his shop because even if he _is_ only using them to talk to Metatron, there's all kinds of nasty stuff that can-“

But he never got to say exactly what it was that the nasty stuff could, because at that point, there was a shout of ' _Coming, Doctor_!' and then there were some running footsteps in the shop until a young black woman for some reason carrying a giant bow and arrow burst outside. She looked around, and her face seemed to fall a little.

"What? 21st century London _again_?“

"No time to lose!"The taller man grinned at her and then gave a final wave at the Winchesters. "Good luck! And, ah, mayyybe try to tone down the killing a bit, yeah? Ta!"

The brothers stared as both the man and the woman took off running through the side streets. There was a bit of a pause. 

Then: 

" _I've had it up to HERE with this freak city and its freak inhabitants and-!_ "

"Dean, let's..let's just go to the lake, okay?"Sam tried to calm his shouting brother down, aware that for some reason the security cameras now seemed to be zooming in on them. The younger brother also thought that he now had some newfound sympathy for any innocent bystanders in any of _their_ cases when the Winchester twister barrelled through their hometown. 

xxx 

Crowley's and Aziraphale's pace was slow and ambling along a familiar route, almost as if neither of them particularly wanted to arrive at their destination. When they finally did, and came to a stop at the shore of the duck pond in St. James Park, no one of them said anything for a while. Crowley absent-mindedly materialized a few bread crumbs in his palm and threw a couple at the ducks. Only one of them sank. 

"This is goodbye, then, for a while?"Aziraphale asked then, looking at the still greyish sky full of little snowflakes. 

"Depends on how soon I can shake them, I suppose,"Crowley said, carefully not using the word _whether_. "But yeah. Probably for a while."

"Well, I suppose at least the air traffic will get a reprieve,"Aziraphale replied, and there was that smile again, the one that he sometimes had when he looked at Crowley, looked at him as if he never had lost his grace, was still a little part of heaven on earth, and the one the demon could never stand looking at for too long because it would hurt. 

"Figures that would be the one thing you'd take away from me leaving,"Crowley instead replied dryly. He waved a hand, intending to perhaps materialize elsewhere in a second, maybe on a boat preparing to cross the ocean. He still liked boats, ever since humans had invented sea faring. And he would need to go now, leave before he could do anything else that was stupid, like maybe simply grab Aziraphale and...

Crowley sighed. 

"See you, ang-" 

And that was as far as he came, because _then_ there was shouting, and hands out of nowhere, grabbing him, more hands, pressing against a bloody rune smeared on a tree, and Aziraphale _screamed_ , and then, for both angel and demon, the world simply dissolved into a searing, blinding white.

_To be continued..._


	8. From the Frying Pan into the Holy Fire

  


They found them at the lake. 

"There! Like the crazy man said!“ Dean hissed, coming to a halt in the same bushes he had watched the demon earlier from. Now there were more people in the park than yesterday, but their targets, one in a black suit and one in a tweed coat, were clearly visible, feeding ducks. "Is that the one you think might be an angel?“ 

"Yeah,“ Sam nodded. "The strange bookseller.“ He cocked his head. "But seriously, right now the two of them look more gay than supernatural. Over here in Europe they make a difference between the two, I think.“ 

"Funny,“ Dean replied dryly. "So, we go over there now, or what?“ 

"I guess,“ Sam said, straightening up. "Though I'm not sure what we have against the angel cuirrently. So far, he's only made me tea and then put us to bed.“ 

"He tried screwing with our minds, Sammy,“ Dean reminded his brother, stepping out of the foliage. Then something seemed to occur to him and he paused. "That tea wasn't poisoned, was it?“

"It was chamomile.“ 

Dean shook his head. "Same thing.“ 

And that was all they could say, because before they had even taken another step in the direction of the angel and his partner, Alastair had suddenly materialized. And he had brought company. 

In an instant, two pairs of hands had grabbed the black suit, while a third demon pressed a hand on what both of them recognized was an angel-dispelling rune hastily smeared onto a tree, which let the bookseller scream and vanish along with the rest of them. 

"What the- _Alastair_?!“ Dean could only stare, Sam's simultaneous, much louder "NO!“ drowning out the name of his brother's torturer in hell as their prey escaped. The younger Winchester had stumbled forward a few steps, but could also immediately see it was useless, so he stopped and turned around to his brother with frustration clearly written on his face. 

"Right.“ Dean nodded grimly. "That's enough. We need to find them.“ He looked back at Sam. "Time to call _our_ back-up.“ 

  


xxx

  


Crowley woke up. This was especially unsettling as he couldn't remember having decided to go to sleep. 

And. 

Well. 

Probably _also_ unsettling because he had woken up tied to an upstanding torture rack. 

Crowley groaned quietly. 

His arms twitched, but he could already tell that this was useless. Both his wrists and ankles were encased in metal cuffs chained to the metal frame, spreadeagling him, while binding runes etched into them made sure he was as weak as a kitten trussed up like this. 

Anthony J. Crowley started classifying this situation as A Bit Not Good. 

"Crawly. How lovely of you to join us,“ A far too familiar voice said, and Crowley's head snapped up to see Hastur approaching. To be fair, he didn't _look_ like Hastur, having once again taken possession of a human (for some reason an evil-looking old granny – Crowley supposed Hastur simply wasn't very good at aiming when it came to possessions), but because the more powerful demon now wasn't even trying to conceal his aura anymore, Crowley still recognized him instantly. 

"We hope you find the accommodation to your standards,“ Hastur suggested with a leer he probably thought looked properly evil, but which was missing teeth. Crowley wasn't sure whether he was cringing now because of the fear a pissed-off duke of hell should invoke, or simply cringing because the line was so clichéd.

"Actually, it'ss 'Crowley' now,“ he managed instead, a little nervous hiss coming out despite his best attempts at remaining calm. 

"So he _is_ actually calling himself Crowley. Interesting. A little...megalomania perhaps, hmm?“ A second man – well, man-shaped being – had appeared behind Hastur, and Crowley allowed himself a little groan as he saw the man's coal-black eyes, indicating a human demon. Again not good. Mostly because while demons of original angelic stock had certain principles to maintain, demonfied humans were just batshit crazy. 

"Hello,“ the tall, lanky man greeted Crowley, his voice raspy and deep as an unsettling grin spread on his gaunt face. "I'm Alastair. I'll be the one prodding and cutting, stripping your flesh off your bones and tearing your innards out of your holes, that sound of flayed, wet skin flapping will be just like _music,_ hmm, see, until your mortal coil stops thrashing and bleeding, despite me _digging_ , and _then_ I'll take you down to hell, where I'll continue to play your sinews like an instrument, just to hear you _sing_ , and we can do that, ooooh, so many times down there....“ 

"Hi,“ said Crowley weakly. 

"You're right,“ Alastair's dark sunken eyes seemed to gleam now as he looked back at Hastur. "This one will be interesting. Nothing like, well, younger demons today. Taking them apart wasn't nearly so... _satisfying_.“ 

"Okay, look,“ Crowley's voice was now a bit higher and there was a way the demon squirmed in the torture rack that already suggested that not all of his joints might have been human. "There's a way to talk about this, isn't there?“

"Ooh, look, and I haven't even _touched_ you yet,“ Alastair smiled with something that was approaching some horrible perversion of glee as he stepped forward, his hand running down Crowley's side like a butcher would test the firmness of a pig half hanging on meat hooks. "Words won't help you, my lovely. Screams might....“ he paused. Then he set the point of his knife below Crowley's throat. "But I don't think so.“ 

"You should've known you wouldn't be able to run from me forever, Crowley,“ Hastur smiled as he stood behind the human demon. He was attempting to visibly gloat, a feat only made difficult by the fact that he had to obviously squint through his granny glasses to recognize the stuff even only a metre in front of him. Crowley for his part was already instinctively trying to twist away from Alastair's touch, like a snake that knew someone was about to draw its fangs and had already seen the pliers.

At Hastur's words he turned his head with an effort. "Maybe,“ he said. "Nothing wrong with getting a good head start, though.“ 

Alastair laughed. "Ohh, wonderful. Beautiful. I do so like victims with humour. It's so wonderful to get them to the point where the sheer _pain_ erases their sense of funny, as their skin parts and the blood runs out...when the laughing turns to crying. To hear them beg instead of joke, until their throats are too hoarse from the screaming. What do you think could make you stop laughing, Crowley, hmm...?“ he asked, indicating a trolley that another demon servant had just wheeled inside. Crowley eyed the instruments on it with rising panic. Apart from some decidedly human inventions to make each other's lives miserable, and some implements Crowley was sure he hadn't seen since the days of the Spanish inquisition, the table also held syringes, various assortments of salt, holy water and even an angel sword. And while Crowley knew that none of those things save the sword if applied correctly and the holy water would be able to kill him, he also knew they would all hurt like...well, hell. 

He surveyed their surroundings again, but there was nothing that looked like it could help him. They were in an abandoned warehouse somewhere, the kind he had suspected only existed in American TV shows, and even though there were blind windows with daylight filtering in, he had no illusions that probably no one was around to hear him scream. 

At least they had let him keep his shades. Maybe that would mean they at least wouldn't mock him for closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to see what came next. 

Crowley wondered whether he would ever see Aziraphale again when the point of the knife first pierced his skin. 

And then they shot open again abruptly when a loud crash announced that one of the windows had just been violently shattered and a lot of shouting indicated that something exciting was happening right now. 

"Az-!“ Crowley had almost shouted his friend's name, but the word stuck in his throat when he recognized the new arrivals. 

They weren't his angel. 

They were the two completely insane Americans that had been stalking him all day. 

"YOU!“ One of them, the compact one, pointed at Alastair. "You're supposed to be dead!“ 

"Hello, Dean. You shouldn't trust your little brother's addict powers so much,“ the demon smiled. "Takes more, oh, so much more than a human playing at being the antichrist to kill _me_.“ 

"We're going to put you back into hell, Alastair,“ the taller one snarled. 

"Oh, please do,“ the demon replied. "I haven't played with any of the people you failed to save in _such_ a long time...“

And then the one called Dean screamed and flung himself forward into the fray, and Crowley couldn't help but wonder whether there was some kind of backstory here that he was missing. 

  


xxx

  


The warehouse was now an open war zone. And Crowley was a very unhappy fixed point in it since he was still tied to his torture rack. 

"Dean! Catch!“ The taller man shouted, simultaneously flinging some sort of knife at his partner, who caught it as if they had practiced that maneuver many times, and then thrust it into the chest of the goon on top of him who sort of went glowy and then collapsed and died. In fact, all three of the possessed humans Alastair and Hastur had brought with them had by now suffered similar fates. Crowley really squarely blamed them for that, because they seemed to keep coming at the two young men one by one instead of ganging up for once, and really, that was stupid. Alastair had retaliated by flinging the taller human against a wall, but had to dodge the one called Dean coming at him with the knife. Hastur himself wasn't doing anything useful, because his human form had lost their glasses in the excitement and that meant that the duke was now setting random things on fire, but otherwise not interfering much in the fight. 

"Hey, Alastair! Remember this?!“ the young man who had been flung against the wall was already back on his feet and now splashing an entire bottle of water with a rosary in it at both remaining demons. Crowley gave a sort of strangled, panicky noise and executed a very interesting maneuver in his bindings that should not have been possible with a human spine to avoid the few drops that splashed in his direction. 

Alastair and Hastur, as it turned out, were not so lucky. 

Crowley winced a bit in involuntary sympathy at the screaming. 

"No! Sam, stop them!“ Dean yelled as soon as a cloud of black smoke erupted from the mouth of the old woman, before briefly descending on Alastair and, somehow enveloping his form, letting it vanish and then disappear through the cracks in the floor. 

Crowley suddenly became keenly and immediately aware that this meant that now he wasn't trapped with two demons hell-bent on revenge on his poor body, but instead trapped with two freaks who seemed to be hell-bent on _something_ at least and he had no idea what that was. 

They turned on him as soon as Hastur and Alastair had disappeared. 

"Ah! Ah! Watch where you're splashing that stuff!“ He shouted at them as soon as one of them – Dean - had raised the holy water bottle now at him. "Look! I'm totally harmless here,“ he tried to convince them, wriggling a bit awkwardly in his binding restraints.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't just pour this all over you anway.“ 

"My...Old Worlde charme?“ Crowley tried.

When that only seemed to produce two very non-impressed Americans, Crowley quickly tried to keep talking instead.“ Look, I've had this body for more than 200 years!“, he protested. "Surely _you_ couldn't want to destroy those cheekbones?“ he asked, looking at the taller one in slight hopefulness. 

"That body belongs to somebody, buddy.“ Dean pointed out, coming one step closer and gripping Crowley by the lapel. Now the demon couldn't help but finally scowl. 

"Yeah, to _me_. I had it custom-made and I happen to be very fond of it after four centuries.“ 

There was a pause as both humans seemed to consider this, a small glance between them perhaps suggesting that this wasn't something they had expected. Crowley decided to take that as his chance.

"I am one of the good guys, you know?“ the demon sounded vaguely hopeful. "Well. _Technically_ ,“ he added. 

"Will you shut _up_.“ Dean finally rubbed a hand across his face. "Sammy, let's get a proper devil's trap drawn around this guy. I don't trust these bindings.“ Turning to Crowley, he added: "And you, you know what? Who wears sunglasses inside? _Douchebags_ , that's who.“ 

There was scarcely little Crowley could do as Dean grabbed his shades ungently from his face, but he did find it interesting (and slightly worrying) that they both took a little breath at the sight of his eyes, but then almost immediately seemed to relax somewhat again, not all that surprised. Crowley once again wondered who on Earth had just managed to save/catch him here. 

The one called Sam recovered first. "Pretty boastful, pretending to be one of the good guys walking around with those eyes, if you ask me,“ he said. 

"They're my eyes. Can't do anything about them, Sammy,“ Crowley replied, narrowing them. But that reply seemed to have been the wrong choice. The taller man's gaze instantly grew cold. 

"My brother calls me Sammy,“ he replied flatly. "You don't.“ 

"...okay. Touchy,“ Crowley said, trying to regain a more jovial tone. "But, listen, I'm really not-“ 

"You can save your breath,“ Dean cut him off as Sam began painting what Crowley recognized as a crude, but efficient verson of a devil's trap around him with a spray can. "We weren't planning to gank you. Yet.“ 

Crowley couldn't say he liked the sound of that last word there much. And the question of 'Then what _do_ you need me for?' seemed to be pretty much written on his face.

Because now the two brothers grinned in a way that made Crowley unsure of whether being in their custody was anywere better than being in Hastur's and Alaistar loving care. 

Dean smiled at him brightly.

"You, honey? You're _bait_.“ 

  


_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, hope you liked! SPN has gone into winter break, but hey, DW christmas special coming up and Sherlock premiere, so that's good, right...? ;P Next up: Sam and Dean's back-up is gonna make his grand entrance...;) and if you read, please review? :3


	9. Look This Is A Misunderstanding

"...bait?“ Crowley repeated the word, seemingly not quite sure whether he should be offended at this. He hoped he was supposed to be bait of the live sort, anyway. "To catch what?“ 

"Some sort of angel is helping you.“ Dean stepped closer to him, inside the devil's trap Sam had almost finished drawing. "And an angel who has struck a deal with a demon is far more interesting for a particular friend of ours than a small fry hell spawn like you could ever be.“ 

Crowley could feel his blood turn cold instantly, too shocked by this new development that he could even protest at the 'small fry' bit. "What?“ he asked hoarsely. "No! There is no deal-!“ 

"Ohh, but there is,“ Dean grinned at him triumphantly "Why else would Alastair and his playmate have grabbed you? You're some sort of double agent,“ he said, sounding pleased. "So, while we wait for your feathered traitor friend to show up...“ Dean leaned in and his eyes narrowed. 

"What are you doing here? Are you working for Crowley?“

That provoked a very long stare from the demon.

"Am I...working for myself? Let me think. That sounds metaphysical.“

The next thing that happened was a slap across the face. Yellow eyes instantly started glowing with anger. 

"You think this is funny?!“ Dean barked. "Are you working for Crowley or not?“ 

Crowley glared at him. "I _am_ Crowley.“ 

"Uh. No, you're not,“ Sam said, having finished the devil's trap and joining his brother's side. Crowley looked at them both, now a bit confused. 

"Er. Yes, I am.“ Although this was kind of the first time _this_ had happened when introducing himself. 

"No.“ Dean shook his head. "No, we've met Crowley. You're not him.“ Then he looked kind of thoughtful. "Though you've got the same accent. And you're also both kinda slimy.“ 

"Except the _real_ Crowley wouldn't have been stupid enough to be caught by other demons,“ Sam added helpfully. 

Crowley at this point decided that whoever this other Crowley was, he already didn't like him.

"I'm telling you, my name is Anthony J. Crowley, and I've had this name for close to 6000 years,“ he said testily. "And I've only added the first name when having two names became the fashion among you lot.“ 

"Okay.“ Dean held his hands up. "You know what? I don't care who you are, you can save that for when Cas gets here. For now I just want to know who told you to kill us.“ 

"...what now?“

This question had gotten them another uncomprehending expression. By now both Winchesters would have had to admit that this was easily the most confused demon they had ever seen. 

"You...attacked us in that store with the plants,“ Sam said, trying not to feel as if he was giving a particularly dense fellow student his notes after they hadn't been paying attention in class. 

The perplexed expression changed into a frown. 

"No, I didn't.“ 

"Hell, yeah!“ Dean protested. At that day he had had plant vines in terrible places, and this demon wasn't wriggling out of this now. 

"I'm telling you, no,“ Crowley protested. " _I_ was the one being attacked. You were just _there,_ I don't even know _why_.“ the demon was now giving off a 'Look, do you even have any idea what you're doing here'-vibe and it was somewhat unsettling. 

Dean attempted to get this situation back under control.

"You possessed a waitress in that cafe!“ 

"I didn't. Posessions are unsanitary. Which cafe?“ 

Dean sighed. "The one next to the cake shop that you spent an hour sitting in front of while having a coin glued to the floor.“ He had to admit to himself, when saying it out loud it sounded somewhat silly in an interrogation. The demon looked exasperated in his torture rack now. 

"I'm telling you, no. And look, I don't even _know_ you!“ 

"Yeah, right.“ Dean scoffed. "A demon not knowing us. Sounds legit.“ 

"No, seriously. Who are you even supposed to be?“ Crowley asked again, biting his forked tongue before he could be tempted to add 'Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy?' to that last question. 

Dean gave him a long, hard look. Then he glanced at his brother, who shrugged, before finally turning back to Crowley. 

"The Winchesters. We're Sam and Dean Winchester.“ 

Crowley blinked. Then he got the impression that the brothers for some reason seemed to have expected more. 

"That's a....nice name?“ He tried. "Very...uh, buff.“ 

"Dean, there's no point.“ Sam laid a hand on his brother's shoulder. "He's making fun of us. Or plain lying.“ 

The older Winchester grunted "Yeah, I know. Should we wait for Cas, then or make him talk?“ 

Even with his wrists bound tightly to the torture rack, Crowley managed to raise a finger. 

"You know, I don't think I like where this is going.“ 

"You're not supposed to,“ Dean replied coldly. Turning back to the implements they had left on the floor, he said: "Alright then, let's start with the holy water.“ 

The effect was immediate. Yellow eyes widened, and the demon's skin turned ashen. "NO! Uh, I mean please. Don't.“ 

Sam raised an eye brow. The captured demon now looked genuinely worried, which was new. Usually, they had a habit of remaining obnoxiously smug until the end, but this one... Sam frowned. With the confusion, the insistence on his name, and now the pure nervousness he displayed, it...he...seemed somehow more _human_. Except for the snake eyes, anyway. 

"Okay, listen. I'll do anything. Or say anything. 'Winchester' is the prettiest name in the universe, honesst.“ the demon said, curiously hissing a little now. 

Dean, ignoring that, scoffed. "Yeah right. You're lucky we still need you to make your feathery pal come here. I suspect he has a better chance of finding you while you're still alive.“ 

Sam looked at his watch at that. 

"Yeah, talking about that, it's been a while.“ He looked up at Crowley, frowning. "Is that angel you've struck a deal with one of the slow sort?“ 

  


xxx

"No, look, I need his location NOW!“

"Sure, sure, no need to shout, I am looking for him, but I'm an angel, not a miracle worker...“

"Ezekiel, _please_ -“ 

"Yes, yes, yes. Everyone always needs locations _now_ , don't they? Five minutes ago it was that tie-wearing upstart, now it's the Principality who hasn't bothered to say hello up here in almost 400 years-“ 

Aziraphale groaned and tried to resist the temptation to bite into his own wing. Ezekiel, who he was currently talking to through a portal in the bookshop, was very diligent about tracking movements of all angels and demons on this world, but someone who could hurry, he was not. 

  


xxx

  


"Okay.“ The taller man had stood, rocking on his feet a little. "So, we...wait.“ 

At the warehouse, not much time had passed, perhaps fifteen minutes or so, during which the two brothers had been busy pouring something that Crowley couldn't quite recognize on the floor. But it had been enough for all three of them to start becoming actually bored.

"Damn angels. Supposed to be punctual.“ Dean grumbled. Then, something seemed to occur to him. "Wait. There's something I've been meaning to try with a captured demon.“ Again, he grinned in a way that made Crowley think that if he hadn't been currently caught in a devil's trap, people might be hard-pressed to tell who exactly was the demon around here. That man had something of hell about him for sure...

Crowley suddenly thought that he might prefer to stay bored instead. 

Dean had pulled out a small, tattered book from his jacket and was now leafing through it, talking quietly to himself.

"Just something to pass the time...“

"What do you want to try?“ his brother asked him, also poking his nose in the small journal, his tone oddly akin as if they were currently studying nothing but the menu at some blessed restaurant. Crowley once again wondered who the hell he was even dealing with, here. He had tried, really tried, but could only recall the name 'Winchester' as the label of an arm's manufacturer and a small carpentry business at the south end of London. He somehow doubted these two had come here to build him some shelves. 

"This is a spell dad found at some church in the midwest. It's supposed to force demons and other monsters that can control how they look to reveal their true form. I've been meaning to try it,“ Dean said. "Freakin' _hate_ shifters.“ 

"Don't. You will regret thiss,“ Crowley said, but in truth was getting more than a little nervous now. His instances of nerves, if you discounted that whole apocalypse business over twenty years ago, had actually been few and far between. That time when he had seen that expression in Aziraphale's eyes when he'd accidentally burnt down the library of Alexandria came to mind, for instance. But being trapped by two humans who for some reason seemed to know _way_ more than they should was rapidly coming close. 

"You really want to try this now?“ Sam asked. "Shouldn't we just wait for Cas or that one's angel pal?“ 

"Hey, I think this mumbo jumbo could come in handy, and I wanna see if it works,“ Dean replied. "And since we have little yellow eyes 2.0 here pretty much bent over and waiting to take it, I don't think we'll be getting a better opportunity any time soon.“ 

"Okay, fine,“ the taller one seemed to give up and throw his hands into the air, and once again Crowley wondered whether he had maybe been caught by a married couple who were arguing over the telly programme. 

But then Dean started reading and Crowley immediately was in more pain than even watching reality TV could produce. 

" _In nomine patris._..“ 

"Aaah!“ Crowley gasped and threw his head back, could feel his muscles cramping up and bones shifting. None of these processes would have hurt him per se, but it was the unexpectedness with which it was forced upon him and the pain of the holy words that accompanied it, reminding him sharply of that home he had left so long ago. 

The Winchesters watched with wide eyes and fingers tensing around their weapons as the demon's face screwed up in a grimace, body straining against the manacles as the slender form stretched itself like a bowstring...until finally cloth tore and brilliantly white wings burst forth from the demon's back, now trapping him even more painfully in the rack, like a cruel bird cage too small to hold its captive. 

".... _white_ wings?!“ Sam managed to regain his speech back first.

"Of _coursse_ they're bloody white, you idiot,“ Crowley, now more hanging in the manacles than standing, grunted in pain. "I _was_ an angel once, you know.“ 

"Yeah, right!“ Dean seemed to have recovered as well and snorted. " _Real_ angels' wings are black. Like, everyone knows that.“ 

Crowley seemed to mutter something along the lines of 'who died and made _you_ the expert on plumage', but Sam cut him off:

"Yeah. Also, if you really _were_ an angel, those wings would have burned our eyes out.“ 

" _Excuse_ _me_?“Crowley had managed to get his feet under himself again and now seemed more offended than in pain. "Only a complete _beginner_ with no idea how to handle himself in a corporeal form would accidentally burn a mortal's eyes out. I have some professional pride, you know?“ He had managed to fold one wing somewhat awkwardly on his back, leaving the other half-stretched out where the rack in his back prevented him from getting it into a more comfortable position. 

"Although,“ he added somewhat waspishly, "If you take into account how rarely that whole stuck-up bunch actually venture out of heaven, I wouldn't be surprised if most of them actually _did_ go around making ocular barbeques a habit,“ he grumbled. "Bloody _amateurs_.“ 

He looked up. Sam and Dean were staring at him. 

"...what?“ 

Then Dean simply reached out and plucked a feather. 

" _Ow_! Hey!“ (To be fair, by now he actually _would_ have wanted to burn their eyes out, but that was made a bit difficult by the devil's trap.)

"Dean? What are you doing?“

"Angel feathers. Or crazy-demon feathers,“ the shorter one said, shrugging. "Dunno, could come in handy at some point.“

"You could at least _ask,_ “Crowley complained, but then shut up rather quickly as Dean went back to the small old book and seemed to focus on something on the page again. 

"Okay. Whatever. Now, interesting thing is that this spell actually also has a _second_ stage-“

"Oh, come _on_ -“ the thing with the wings started to protest, but was once again cut off by its own pained gasp as Dean began reciting again. And this time, the transformation seemed a little bit more dramatic.

"Woah!“ Sam called out as the man in the suit now seemed to collapse in on himself, even smoke emanating as he grew smaller when he fell to the ground, manacles suddenly clinking uselessly against the frame as arms and legs disappeared, the wings bursting apart like a magic trick, until the only thing that remained...

...was a large black snake, coiled in the centre of the devil's trap, regarding them with absolute poison. Only its eyes had stayed the exact same. 

"I disslike not having opposssable thumbsss, pal,“ it hissed. Sam noted that apparently, it had kept its accent as well. Dean had cocked his head in interest as he regarded the reptile, and was about to shrug in a 'tough luck' manner, but then the serpent actually smiled. 

"And it'ss not the sssmartest idea to give a demon back hiss true form,“ the snake said and then reared up and spat poison right at Sam's chest. 

" _Aaah_!“ The taller man yelled, but interestingly, Dean yelled, too, and at that instant Crowley thought the _last_ time he had seen the expression that Dean wore now, it had been on the face of a grizzly bear parent that had just watched its cub get shot. 

It dawned on Crowley right as the holy water was flung at him that perhaps this last action had been a rather grave mistake. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the searing pain - 

" _YOU WILL STOP IT AT ONCE!_ “ 

...and opened them again when Aziraphale's voice _boomed_ through the warehouse, the angel's tattered wings spread wide in front of him and shielding him from the holy water which pearled off divine feathers harmlessly. 

" _Azi_ -!“ 

And that was as far as Crowley got, because _then_ Sam on the floor yelled, "Dean, NOW!“ and the unhurt one of the brothers threw a lighter. 

And one pair of yellow and one pair of blue eyes were just as wide and just as shocked as a ring of holy fire reared up instantly, reflected off scales as black as night and wings as white as clouds, and ended up trapping the angel Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Principality of the British subcontinent, and part time book store owner. 

  


_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, Ya Filthy Animals :p


	10. Our Angels Are Different, Okay

"Dammit. We'll need to call Cas," Dean cursed as he tried to help his hurt brother to his feet. Sam didn't cry out but the grimace of pain on his face said it all. The poison of the demon-turned-snake was eating through his flannel shirt, the skin below dissolving, bleeding and raw. It didn't seem to be stopping.

"Oh dear," the trapped angel said, for some reason seeming genuinely distressed, but not so much about the flames surrounding him. "Did Crowley spit at you? _Really_ , Crowley," he addressed the snake admonishingly.

At this point it was all the demon could do not to reply with 'Well, _they_ started it!', but his defensively coiled body language expressed it clearly enough.

Sighing, Aziraphale turned to the two humans again, the unhurt one having managed to get his taller companion onto his feet now. "Unfortunately, Crowley _is_ rather venomous," he said in a tone that would have been more appropriate when explaining a bad habit a friend had at parties, "But if you put some holy water on it, the burning should stop. Or, if you let me out of this circle, I could heal it. Say, why _are_ we trapped, incidentally?" he asked with a blink, unpreened wings flapping a bit uncertainly, like a dove that didn't quite know how it suddenly had come to be in a magic top hat.

Dean couldn't help but stare. The angel, and it had to be an angel, because there had been that customary angel-noise when he'd appeared and the holy water hadn't even fazed him, just like the holy fire was now trapping him – the angel was looking at them both completely clue- and guileless and that was just way too much Castiel that he had to shake his head to focus again.

"Why would you be helping us?" Dean asked, voice even rougher than usual and laced with suspicion.

"He'ss a bloody _angel_ ," Crowley piped up, snake eyes glaring. "Moreover, he'ss Azzziraphale. He would be helping you after you amputated one of his blesssed wingss," he grumbled. "Though maybe not after you sstole one of his bookss," he added after a moment of thinking.

"Really, dear boy, you are exxagerating," the blonde man said again, with an inflection that was a strange mixture between disapproval and fondness. To the brothers he added: "Though, honestly, if you could just release us, I could help your friend and I'm sure we could sort out this misunderstanding-

"Yeah, not a chance in hell," Dean cut him off. "Come on, Sammy," he said, suddenly sounding a lot more tender in those last words than when he had been addressing the angel and the demon that the contrast was jarring. He draped an arm of the taller one around his shoulders. "Let's call Cas, okay? He'll fix you up. We've finished here."

Dean was steering his brother through a door leading into a sort of corner office in the warehouse as he spoke, perhaps to offer them some privacy for tending to their wounds. Aziraphale watched them leave with some dismay, but Crowley noticed that his friend had seen the bottle of holy water that Dean had grabbed despite his words, and that seemed to cheer the angel up a bit.

xxx

"So now we're _both_ trapped. Brilliant."

It was a little bit later, a few minutes after the two men calling themselves the Winchesters and apparently expecting everyone to know what that meant had disappeared and Crowley had reverted back to his human form. It _was_ annoying to have no limbs. In the Garden he'd been happy to simply be on Earth, regardless of the body, but once Hell had commissioned him a human-shaped one, Crowley hardly had ever reverted back to the body of a snake if he could help it - he had a tendency to get kinks in his coils. At least his brief stint as his reptile-self had meant that he was no longer shackled, but, sadly, still imprisoned in the devil's trap, just as Aziraphale was confined to the ring of flames beside him. Crowley sat cross-legged, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands and was the very picture of moroseness.

"Did you get...burned? When they lit up the fire," Aziraphale asked, concern visible on every line on his face. Crowley gave him a tired smile.

"I'm a demon, angel. Flames stopped hurting me long ago."

Aziraphale seemed to exhale a little, before also settling down, his own wings once more disappeared now that there wasn't any immediate use for them. "How do they _know_ all this, you think?" he asked, light blue eyes tracing the red lines surrounding Crowley, the angel's tone sounding just a tad bit unnecessarily impressed in the demon's opinion.

"They're hunters. Pretty sure of that now," Crowley said, not sounding very pleased with that conclusion.

"You keep mentioning that word. What exactly...?"

Crowley gave a wave. "Like the Witchfinder Army. Only American."

Aziraphale's eye brows rose. "These two boys are part of the Witchfinder Army?"

(Aziraphale had been too polite to say anything, but when he had met Sgt. Shadwell and poor, fumbling Newt the last time, he wasn't really sure they were actually equipped to deal with anything more supernatural than a garden gnome.)

"Well, like the Witchfinder Army armed with more firepower and more actual knowledge, I think," Crowley said. He made a dismissive gesture. "'s a new world thing. Has to be, of course. It's all those guns they have and their violent telly. Ever since they started butchering each other, it was only a matter of time until they'd shoot something else than a human by chance and since then it's been open season over there," he grumbled. "Bloody yanks."

"I think the loose gun laws and a lot of the television shows were actually your idea, if I remember correctly?" Aziraphale suggested innocently. Yellow eyes glowered at him.

" _Bite_ me."

xxx

"Damn. You okay, Sam?" Dean asked, with that usual edge of fear and urgency in his voice whenever something had hurt his little brother, and if laughing hadn't been painful, Sam almost would have had to snort at this nonsencial question that they mostly asked each other when one of them was currently dying. Instead, he only tried not to wince too much as he hit the floor.

"Ggh...Dean, it's not stopping...!" Sam grunted, raising himself up on his elbows where he lay on his back, head thrown backwards in pain.

The older Winchester cursed under his breath, trying to gently tear away the half-destroyed fabric of Sam's shirt and undershirt, watching the almost _sizzling_ skin underneath it, and tried not to feel sick. The poison wasn't stopping. It was eating into Sam like acid and Cas wasn't there and Bobby wasn't picking up the phone and he didn't have the faintest idea what to do.

"Should I...try the holy water?" he asked. Though truth be told, he'd rather try to _lick_ the goddamn poison out of Sam's wound before he trusted an angel that wasn't Cas.

"Can't, ah, hurt, right?" Sam groaned. "I'm not hopped up on demon blood at the moment, at least," he tried a weak smile, but it came out a grimace. "Try it."

"...okay," Dean said, and with a last look at his kid brother, poured the whole bottle on his chest. It occurred to him that Sam getting drenched during this 'vacation' was an altogether too common experience.

Sam hissed as the water made contact with his skin. But Dean could see that the sizzling stopped almost instantly.

"Well I'll be damned. It's working, Sammy."

"Hhhh-" Sam sucked air through his teeth with a hiss, panting as the last drops of water ran down the sides of his ribcage. "That's...good. Still hurts," he winced, as he tried to sit up, "But I think it's better."

"Okay," Dean nodded, now a bit weirded out that the angel they had just trapped had apparently spoken the truth. And not even demanded something in return for that information.

"Right." he said. "Get some first aid stuff from the Impala for that cutie mark on your chest. I'll try to call Cas again. He told us where this warehouse is, now he can damn well show up himself, too."

xxx

"Well, at least they let you revert back to your preferred form," Aziraphale said, smiling at Crowley as if the Winchesters had also brought them cake and asked whether they'd like a foot massage instead of trapping them in some bloody warehouse doing Go...Sa... _someone_ knew what. Crowley realized with rising dread that Aziraphale was trying to _cheer him up._ His tone basically was the verbal equivalent of a hearty clap on the shoulder.

"Probably just worried that I'd spit poison at them again otherwise," Crowley tried to grumble, but couldn't summon the right amount of malice. But still, the forced shapeshifting had left him with a suit whose jacket and shirt were now completely torn to shreds in the back, and the fact that in between two American part-time lumberjacks and Aziraphale, who thought tartan was the height of fashion, it was now _him_ who was the shabbiest-dressed individual, stung.

"I'm sorry I couldn't find you earlier, my boy."

Crowley shrugged. "I've survived worse," he tried to keep his tone and expression casual, but somehow also couldn't prevent himself from feeling glad that Aziraphale was here. They exchanged glances over their respective boundaries and Crowley couldn't help but wonder whether he might have been the first demon that ever had a reason to smile while in a devil's trap.

"Do you know _why_ they imprisoned us?" Aziraphale finally asked, breaking the silence.

"No idea," Crowley said, glancing over at the angel. "To be honest, I'm not even sure _they_ know. It's very confusing. At first they thought _I_ had attacked them, can you believe it? Talk about a victim complex. I don't think they know Hastur even exists," Crowley said, running a hand through his dark hair, before his tone grew a bit more sombre. "But...what they _are_ saying is that they're interested in you, because to them it looks like you made a deal with me, as in, with a demon. They...want to call on somebody they say might be interested in an 'angelic traitor'."

Their gazes met. Demons never said I'm sorry, and yet there was a forgiving expression in Aziraphale's eyes anyway.

"...I, I, mean, where do they even get off?" Crowly piped up when the silence stretched too long, obviously trying to find his footing again on the familiar surface of simple complaining. "Trapping us, torturing me, having the _gall_ to suggest _I_ was stalking _them_ -!"

"They seem...scared," Aziraphale suggested. "You know what humans are like when they get scared," he added quietly.

"Scared?! They wanted to pluck me like a blessed _chicken_!" Crowley scathed.

Aziraphale smiled mildly. "But they didn't hurt you with the angel blade, or the holy water until you attacked them. They weren't...needlessly cruel."

"...no," Crowley grumbled, crossing his arms and looking away, as if he wasn't even very happy about that concession.

"No," Aziraphale repeated, and then in a just slightly too cheerful tone added, "They would have likely found me less amenable to talking with them if they had tried it."

"Right." Crowley swallowed. It had been a while, but he had _not_ forgotten the last time Aziraphale had once witnessed unnecessary cruelty...

"Did you look at their souls?" the angel asked.

"...not much," Crowley said reluctantly. "Like I said, I had a brief glimpse at the shorter one's, but there was...I think someone of your friends left a slightly overprotective mark on it. It hurt to look at it too long."

"Hmm," Aziraphale said. "I looked at them a bit, you know. They're both beautiful."

"Angel, you say that about _every_ soul."

"That's because they _are_ , dear boy," Aziraphale replied conversationally. "The older one is deeply protective of his younger brother," the angel mused, ignoring Crowley's 'yeah, thanks, noticed _that_ ', "and the younger one...well, there' a lot of hurt and suffering." Aziraphale said, sounding lightly unhappy.

Crowley only grunted. "Yeah, I should hope so."

"They have both been to hell, Crowley."

That made the demon blink. "Have they? I wondered..."

"That means that maybe we shouldn't judge them too harshly. I think they're trying to do good," the angel said. "I wish they wouldn't have rushed in like they did, but...well, you probably can't blame them for reacting the way they did to us. After all, we're not exactly the...most usual representatives of our species."

"Hmph," Crowley grunted, which was generally his choice of 'stop making sense, angel'-noise, and Azirphale left it at that and smiled.

Crowley finally looked away when the silence stretched too long and cleared his throat.

"...you think they're actually calling one of yours now, then? They'd have to be...praying for that, right? Are they?"

Azirphale tilted his head. His expression seemed to become a little farwaway, as Crowley knew he was trying to tune into the angelic overhead, the thousands and millions of prayers, wishes and pleas uttered every day and every night everywhere on the planet, trying to find just the prayer of the Winchesters...

Aziraphale frowned.

"Well?" Crowley asked again. "Are they?"

"Er," Aziraphale began, looking somewhat flustered. "I _think_ they are, but what it mostly boils down to is repeated utterings of 'Dammit, Cas!', so I'm not sure that technically counts as pray-"

He stopped himself. And turned to Crowley with wide eyes.

"Wait...that couldn't possibly mean they're praying to...!"

xxx

"Okay, Cas, we've managed to catch the demon, _and_ the angel you wanted, with no help from you, and now Alastair _and_ another seriously powerful hell dude are on our asses and could come back any _minute_ , so, if you're not gonna get your feathery bum down here _right_ now-"

Sam looked on as his big brother was reciting the very special Winchester rosary, himself just having finished applying the bandages on the wound on his chest. Luckily, the poison had just missed the tattoo below his collarbone so at least he wouldn't have to worry about getting possessed if anything went awry after this. Dean seemed to be getting slightly ticked-off at this point, but it was just then that the already familiar noise that always sounded like a cross between the beat of large wings and the flapping of coat tails finally brought an end to their waiting.

"Dean," Castiel said in greeting. "Sam." Blue eyes seemed to focus on the younger Winchester's chest. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine," Sam waved him off, getting back to his feet. His skin burned, but by now he felt like he'd live. And it always let him feel a little better immediately when he could see his brother just simply _relax_ when their angel entered any room. "How's the war going?"

"Difficult, but better," Castiel replied. "Where did you catch the traitor?"

"In there," Dean pointed at the door leading out into the warehouse and Castiel nodded, right before flicking a hand in the direction that let the door bang open, marking his entrance into the warehouse as he marched through with his trenchcoat flaring.

What Dean and Sam then couldn't see, was for the first time, a look of genuine surprise, and then of genuine fear in Castiel's face. What they could however _hear_ , was first a simultaneous gasp of two people, then a moment of shocked silence, and _then_ in the voice of the bookseller a very distinct:

"...Castiel? _Young angel!_ WHAT on Earth is the _meaning_ of this?!"

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Hope you liked! Also, SPN winter break is almost over, so....yay? ;P


	11. "Birds“ of A Feather

Being threatened by Aziraphale was a bit like being threatened by an armchair. Vaguely unsettling because you were at a total loss how to react. 

Right now the angel was trapped in a ring of holy fire, but judging from what could be heard of the heavenly dressing-down that currently seemed to be going on, this did not pertain to his voice. 

Dean looked at Sam, wide-eyed. "Is...is Cas getting _chewed_ _out_ in there?“ 

Before the Winchester brothers could even turn to the door to possibly come to their angel's aid, however, Castiel already came stumbling back in.

"I... may have made a mistsake,“ he said, his voice shaking a little and definitely rougher than usual. "Who you've captured isn't a traitor. He is one of God's first and oldest. Not an archangel,“ he said, holding up a hand before Dean could say anything, "A Principality. You have captured Aziraphale, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden.“ 

There was a pause. 

Castiel shifted a bit. 

"He, ah. Also. Sort of....raised me.“ 

The Winchester brothers stared at him. 

"This is your _Dad_?“

If possible, Castiel looked even more awkward now. "Not quite. We all have the same Father, of course. Aziraphale was more like my...guardian? My...foster parent?“ Castiel seemed to become a bit frustrated. "There's a better word in Enochian,“ he said, while looking at them like he was being helpful. When both Winchesters only continued to stare blankly, he tried: "In your language he might be my...older brother?“ 

Aaaand the poignant silence was back along with its friends Awkward and Holy Fuck. 

" _Young Seraph Castiel, Angel of Temperance, Travelling and Thursday_!“ Aziraphale thundered at this point from the other room, "Get back in here and release us at once!“ 

Castiel seemed to cringe at this and shrink back in on himself a little further. 

"I swear, young angel, if I find out it was _you_ who taught those boys that trick with the burning oil-!“ 

Castiel made a small noise that sounded like 'oh no' and hurried back inside. Dean and Sam again exchanged two quite wide-eyed glances and then hurried after him, for some reason feeling a bit like a class mate had gotten into trouble on their behalf and they now had to face the headmaster. 

"Aziraphale,“ Inside, Castiel was approaching the angel still trapped in the ring of burning fire and seemed to be trying to compose himself against the other's thunderous expression, "I apologize, but I am currently fighting a _civil_ _war_ in-“ 

"You young people can do anything you like in your spare time, but is that any way to treat your elders?!“ the blonde angel interrupted Castiel, crossing his arms in disapproval.

Castiel seemed to now find his feet rather interesting. "No, Aziraphale.“ 

"And what do you say when you've trapped your foster father in a ring of holy fire?!“ 

"Sorry, Aziraphale.“ 

"Good.“ the blonde angel seemed to relax a little and his face and voice had become quite a bit softer when he spoke next. "Now why don't you put out this silly ring and we can talk about it over tea?“

The Winchesters exchanged a glance with Crowley also still sitting in his devil's trap, but the demon only respoded with a 'Don't look at me, he's the crazy angel'- expression. 

Castiel turned to look at Sam and Dean. "We can put out the fire. He is indeed my...foster parent.“

"Your older brother. Your _parent_ ,“ Sam repeated the word that sounded so strange for an angel. "Weren't you all like...created at the same time?“

Aziraphale let out a quiet laugh, sounding mildly amused when he spoke next. "Good heavens, no. Can you imagine what it would have been like in Heaven if every single angel had been a fledgling at the same time without any older ones to take care of them? Utter chaos, that's what.“ 

"But Cas said he was really a celestial wave form...thingy,“ Dean said, blurting the objection out like his mouth was currently running on autopilot because the situation was just too friggin weird. Aziraphale looked at him over his glasses, a bit surprised.

"Well, of course he's a wavelength. But once upon a time he used to be a much _smaller_ one.“ 

It was said as if this answer was perfectly natural. Dean wondered whether it was. He still fixed the blonde angel with a thorough stare. 

"So wait, how old _is_ Castiel?“ He asked, sounding a bit like he was hoping a bit of cross examination would somehow cause all this to suddenly make sense, or maybe reveal Aziraphale to be a fraud. Their own angel next to them seemed curiously to be starting to fidget now, but Dean ignored him. 

Aziraphale waved a hand. "Oh, barely two millennia.“ 

"Oh dear,“ Crowley whistled, for the first time actually contributing to the conversation. "A New Testament brat, is he? Right in his terrible two thousands.“ 

"You have no right to talk to me that way, spawn of the pit!“ Castiel whirled at Crowley now, apparently relieved to finally have someone to direct his annoyance at. Then, obviously feeling that the previous insult hadn't had the right verve, he also added: "Assbutt.“ 

Wide yellow eyes blinked for a moment, the demon taken aback. Then: 

" _Excusse me_ , Thursday?! I am one of the first! I fell with the Morning Star! I _invented_ original sin!“ 

There was an intake of breath from Sam. Something had just clicked. Of course there were more pressing concerns, but on the other hand, details were now falling into place, the eyes, the hissing, the... _bendabilty -_

"Wait, you? You're _the_ Serpent? The snake from Eden?“ the younger Winchester blurted out. 

"The very sssame,“ Crowley replied not without pride, and made it seem just purely coincidental when a dark, forked tongue flicked over his lips.

"And that means...you're younger than _both_ of them?“ Dean asked, turning again to Castiel, who now actually appeared slightly desperate.

"Please, Dean, why is it that so interesting to you?“ he asked, looking like he really wanted to be elsewhere now. 

"I'm sorry,“ Dean grinned unabashedly, "I just find it funny that to them you basically _are_ a baby in a trenchcoat.“

"Yes, I dare say so,“ Aziraphale replied, now actually looking a bit like he was reminiscencing fondly. "I remember, there was a time when he was barely tall enough to reach my knees. I usually had to save him from the celestial chickens always trying to peck at him...“ 

The Winchesters, once again, stared. 

Castiel, in a voice even more strained than usual, managed something that sounded like "Aziraphalepleasedon'ttellDeanaboutthe _chickens,“_ and both brothers actually felt a rare pang of sympathy for the angel. 

Crowley, however, seemed to have no such feelings. The demon, now that a shower of holy water didn't seem to be on the agenda any more, had considerably cheered up and cocked his head. "What _are_ you doing to the voicebox of that vessel by the way?“ he asked, "You sound like a tax accountant trying to be Batman.“ 

This seemed to be crossing some kind of line, however, because now suddenly Dean was in front of the smaller Castiel again, glowering down at Crowley and crossing his arms in an almost protective stance.“Look, will you stop pissing off the nerd angel?! You're acting quite tough for some little snake who's basically still powerless and bent over the table in our devil's trap.“ 

Crowley hissed and yellow eyes narrowed dangerously. "Careful. It's been a while ssince ssomenone trapped me. Want to know what happened to the last human who tried? And besides“, he added with an almost huff and a side glance at Aziraphale. "I'm not bent over anyone's table unless I want to be.“ 

Sam raised an eyebrow, Castiel looked confused, Dean had the stoic look of a man carefully ignoring certain things he didn't want to know, and Aziraphale, blushing just slightly, cleared his throat a bit louder than necessary.

"Now, then, if we're quite finished with everything, how about we get on with it?“

"Like letting you out of there, you mean,“ Sam said carefully and both hunters almost simultaneously looked over at their own, non-trapped angel, silently asking for his opinion of the matter. Castiel gave a curt, hard nod.

"Yes,“ Castiel said, quietly, as he looked at them. "Aziraphale...hasn't been involved in the recent power struggles. He is neutral. I can vouch for him.“ 

"Yeah, probably because he'd take away your TV privileges if you didn't,“ muttered Dean, but thankfully earned himself only a snort from his brother and a frown from the angel. He stepped forward with a bottle of holy water, intent on pouring it over the flames to finally free the strange book shop-owning angel, but Sam grabbed his arm at the last moment. 

"Wait,“ he said, looking at Aziraphale. "You still haven't explained to us what's with that deal you struck with him.“ He nodded at Crowley. "If you're not a traitor to heaven, then...“

Now Aziraphale actually had the grace to look a bit embarrassed. 

"Look, Crowley is not a traitor, either. We just...sometimes...share some workload.“ 

"What's that supposed to mean?“ 

"We're immortals, kid,“ Crowley cut in. "We've been around some time. And sometimes, an enemy you've been fighting against for 6000 years might not technically be an enemy anymore but...“

But then even he trailed off, apparently also not quite able to put whatever arrangement the two had into words. 

"He speaks the truth,“ Castiel said. He had carefully reached out over the flames and laid a hand against Aziraphale's face, and the blonde angel had not resisted his touch, only closed his eyes and even, for one brief moment almost leaned into it. Both angels then turned to look at them again, and there seemed to be a calm about them now, that made Dean wonder whether there was something that angels might be missing when they were on Earth, without their family. Castiel drew his hand back. "His grace is untainted. The bond between these two is not of a corrupt nature.“ 

"An angel who didn't strike a deal with a demon but _befriended_ one,“ Dean muttered. "Or is protentially banging him. I think I need a drink after this.“ 

"But then what's actually going on?“ Sam asked, finally. "If he wasn't lying when he said he wasn't trying to kill us, then what's with the hell hounds, and the plants, and the random café possessions?“ 

"I think,“ Aziraphale said thoughtfully, "That the demon Hastur and another one named Alastair are hunting Crowley. Crowley did something a while back that didn't exactly leave him on Hastur's good side. You two may just have gotten caught in the crossfire.“ 

"More like 'voluntarily ran into the crossfire and then started shooting at both sides'“ muttered Crowley under his breath. 

"Okay. We did recognize Alastair, that's true. But why is he even _in_ this?“ Dean asked. "You piss him off, too?“ The way this question was asked, Crowley suspected he could be earning Brownie points if he answered in the affirmative now. 

"No,“ he said. "Why? Do you know him?“ 

"A bit too well,“ replied Dean, in a tone that declared this topic not only closed, but also buried and dropped into a medium-sized abyss. "Anyway, if he's here, no way it's him and both of us walking out of this alive.“ 

Snake eyes became just the tiniest bit calculating at this information – not surprising, since the Winchesters basically just had offered to gank the demon that had him strung up to a torture rack just half an hour ago. "So, what do you suggest?“ Crowley asked.

"I don't know, how about we leave you in the devil's trap for them to find and strike in this Hastur's moment of triumph?“ Dean asked somewhat peevishly, not liking the same attitude _this_ Crowley seemed to exhibit in the exact same manner like _their_ Crowley, which was trying to strike a goddamn deal even when he shouldn't be having any leverage at all. 

"Hasstur is a Duke of hell,“ Crowley replied flatly, "The two of you and your trenchcoated spring chick take him on with a plan like that, getting dragged to hell will be almost worth seeing what he's going to do to _you_.“

"In that case, what do _you_ suggest, slow-worm? Hide in a terrarium?“ Castiel asked a bit testily, apparently not appreciating being called a spring chick very much.

"Look, your current strategy amounts to hoping Hastur will drown if you are _bleeding_ enough,“ Crowley replied waspishly. "So instead, how about you get us out of here and then we might be able to think of something that doesn't mean we all die horribly before this day ends.“ 

"Well...alright, then,“ Sam took a breath, and, after a quick glance between the brothers, Dean nodded as well. To be fair, _this_ Crowley so far hadn't done anything more heinous than to leave the British gastronomy four pounds short for change, and the Winchesters already had struck deals with demons who had done just a few things "slightly“ worse than that. 

Castiel also nodded. "I will leave, then,“ he said, turning around to walk a few steps away, but the Winchesters followed him instantly. 

"Wait, Cas, you're leaving us _alone_ with them?!“ Dean hissed. 

"I have to. Raphael is already rallying his troops again. But you can trust Aziraphale,“ Castiel said, sounding sincere. "Technically, it's not official but...“ Cas dropped his voice even lower, not looking at them. "Two decades ago, he is said to have been involved in a previous aborted Apocalypse. He helped stop it. He...liked humanity too much,“ Castiel said, and one of his very rare smiles seemed to be tugging at the edge of his mouth as he said it. "A failing I fear I might understand a bit too well now.“ 

Dean's face softened somewhat at the sentiment, but Sam seemed to have picked up on something else. 

"Wait, what? There was an apocalypse already and somebody had stopped it back then before? You couldn't have told us that _sooner_?!“ 

"That time it was...very different,“ Castiel looked a bit pained. "And Aziraphale, well, he's...a bit...out of the loop. Nobody is supposed to talk about him, either.“ He frowned. "Like the Pizza man.“ Castiel looked vaguely hopeful that explanation would make sense. 

When it didn't, he continued: 

"Aziraphale disobeyed back then. I confess I have sometimes wondered during the last two years whether he might have discovered free will like I did.“ _Even though he didn't have you_ , seemed to be the unspoken words in the angel's gaze as he looked at Dean and his brother.

"Well, considering he's your foster father...“ Dean snorted. "Sounds like rebellion runs in the family,“ he said and was pleased to see this draw forth another almost-smile from their angel. 

Castiel looked to the side again. "Aziraphale was then cut off from the command chain, I recall. He was told to continue to stay here on Earth as a field agent, like he had most of the previous millennia. I'm not sure he _does_ know that Heaven doesn't concern itself with him much anymore,“ Castiel said, looking over at the two figures in their respective circles as he said it. Crowley was fidgeting in his, ineffectively scratching at the red paint, while the angel appeared to be trying to make him stop, saying it was disrespectful to destroy other people's devil traps, and Sam had worked so hard at it, too. Neither of them looked like they were even paying attention to Team Free Will 2.0 anymore. 

"But I don't think he cares, either. He seems happy here,“ Castiel finally said, and there was definitely some fondness in his tone and perhaps a bit of...wistfulness? Looking away, he added: "Also, after the apocalypse was averted here the last time, nowadays both sides try to just stay away from Britain in general.“

"Yeah, I can see why,“ Dean replied dryly. 

"Balthazar used to say that if we _do_ try anything here, a particular crazy person in a box would show up everytime, anyway,“ Castiel said, looking confused again. "I'm not sure what he meant by that.“ 

"Did it have something to do with aliens?“ Sam asked curiously, but Castiel had already turned to the other angel one last time, apparently to say goodbye. 

"I need to go back to Heaven, Aziraphale,“ Castiel addressed the older angel. "There are many things I have to attend to. But it was good to see you again. Please take care of Sam and Dean.“ 

Aziraphale nodded and smiled at Castiel behind his glasses. "I will. I know I never took to fighting in the garrisons quite as well as you did, but I'll make sure nothing happens to them when Hastur comes.“ 

"Thank you.“ Castiel's voice sounded just the slightest bit rougher than usual. "I'll take my leave.“ he turned around, apparenly just about to do his disappearing thing right before... 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Oh, and Castiel? Before you go?“ 

The angel of Thursday turned back to Aziraphale. The former expression of fondness now seemed to have been replaced by a more familar one of slight dread.

"...yes?“ 

"Don't say 'assbutt' again.“ Aziraphale made a slight grimace. "It's crude.“ 

"Yes, Aziraphale,“ Castiel replied with just a trace of utter defeat in his voice and made to turn again, but then stopped himself mid-stride.

"No. Wait.“

He looked back at the other angel again. 

"Actually, I think I will say it again. I like that word.“ 

And then he vanished. 

Aziraphale seemed to gape for a moment. "Well, I _never_ -!“ he started, but by then, both Crowley and the Winchesters were laughing just a bit too much for him to finish that sentence. 

The demon grinned at him. "Well, that's humanity for ya. Your little chick has grown a _backbone_!“ 

  


_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Heh, another two weeks, another chapter - and also, just on the offchance that some of you *might* be fans of Doctor Who (I know, what are the odds, right?! ;p) I *just* so happened to upload a new crossover with the guy. If you were lacking in reading material, that is :p Hope you liked and if you read, please review! :D


	12. You've Got A Bad Connection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Okay, so just repeating what I said at the beginning, this is compliant with SPN only up until season 6-ish (which I was watching when starting to write this fic). Therefore, there might be some differences when comparing this one and later seasons, but they're hopefully minor. And off we go!

"Okay. Now what?" Sam asked, still smiling slightly after Castiel had managed his dramatic 'assbutt' exit.

"How about you finally let us out?" Crowley drawled from inside his devil's trap, curiously somehow appearing to be lounging, even if technically there wasn't even anything you could lounge against.

"...fine," Dean said after a moment had passed. "But just so we're clear, if we let your scrawny demon ass outta there, you _will_ help us defeat Alastair or I'll personally make a belt out of your snaky skin."

Crowley levelled a flat stare at him. "Tell me, how _do_ the ladies resist you?"

"Okay, listen up, sunglass douche-"

" _Or_ how does your angel sweetheart, for that matter." This was accompanied with a sly grin, that only vanished when Dean went for the holy water again, the demon suddenly at the very edge of his prison and making panicky hand gestures. "Okay! Okay! Touchy subject, obviously!"

Sam and Aziraphale exchanged glances for a moment and the younger Winchester somehow couldn't help but feel a touch of companionship – there was a certain something you shared with other people that had partners with the social tact of a dysfunctional wrecking ball - Sam wondered whether it might be Stockholm Syndrome.

"Alright, alright. I will help you against Alastair, if you help me against Hastur," Crowley said, still eyeing the water in Dean's hand warily. "Just no...aquatic accidents here, okay?"

"Your call," Dean informed him gruffly, before turning around and pouring the water over Aziraphale's flames instead. The angel smiled at him gratefully as he stepped out and Dean nodded toward Sam. "Okay. Scratch the paint and let's see whether we can actually get anything done. And _you_ ," he added, jabbing a finger at Crowley, "Don't try... _anything_ , okay?"

The demon rolled his yellow eyes. "Fine."

After a last glance at his brother, Sam then kneeled down and, in a careful, practiced motion used the blade of his knife to scrape just the smallest of gaps into the red paint, which was nevertheless enough to render the pentagram completely obsolete. Sam straightened instinctively as Crowley smiled and sauntered out of his imprisonment, the tears in his clothes repairing themselves and new sunglasses appearing immediately as soon as he'd crossed the damaged line. Both Winchesters tensed up instinctively, but the demon didn't seem to do anything more dramatic than straightening the cuffs of his suit jacket.

Well.

That is, until Sam again looked to where his brother had last stood and only saw a very tiny gecko.

" _Crowley!_ "

"Okay, okay." Crowley held his hands up in mock surrender, ignoring Aziraphale's indignancy. "Just thought he might enjoy the reptilian perspective of things, s'all."

" _Be a dear_ , and turn him back. Now."

"I dunno." Now the demon shrugged non-chalantly. "He had fun yanking me every which way in that devil's trap. _And_ plucking my feathers. Maybe I'll just keep him in a glas jar and let him climb ladders."

It wasn't quite clear how much human consciousness had been left in the gecko's mind at that, but it was now suddenly quite determinedly clinging to Sam's jeans.

"That's frogs, dear boy," Aziraphale corrected him. "And now look, his younger brother is getting all over-excited," - he briefly gestured at a tensed-up Sam Winchester who looked ready to stab either just Crowley or the two of them -"and someone is bound to get hurt, or," Aziraphale glanced at gecko!Dean - "well, _squished_ , if this goes on any longer. And we do have Hastur and Alice to take care of."

"Alastair," Sam corrected automatically, then remembered he was supposed to be pissed at them. "Now turn my brother back!"

"Fine," an exasperated-looking Crowley snapped his fingers. "He was a rubbish gecko anyway. All flanel-coloured."

Next to Sam, the small reptile made a strange noise and then suddenly _expanded_ , a soft 'whhomph!' accompanying the re-appearance of Dean Winchester, who blinked.

"...whu?"

"Eh...Dean? Everything okay?"

Dean took a moment to process that question. Physically, he felt fine, but for some reason suddenly couldn't shake the strange desire to start climbing walls.

"...yeah. I think. Why? Did something weird just happen?"

Sam and Aziraphale exchanged glances again, both of them already experts at calculating the likely outcome of telling the older hunter that a demon had just turned him into a gecko.

"No." Their answer came in unison.

"Okay." Dean frowned at this, but then seemed to dismiss the entire thing, instead surveying their general situation with a quick glance. "So, basically. On our side, we have Cas' weird foster parent and his demon...life partner, or whatever, while Alastair has gone and gotten himself a BFF hell duke that's supposed to be one of the nastiest mo'fos down there." The older Winchester made a grimace. "Now what?"

"Now we strike back," Crowley said, shrugging.

"Okay. How?" Dean asked, still looking at the demon warily, but apparently a lot more open to cooperation with denizens of hell if it involved slaying some of them at the same time.

"Well, I managed to get rid of Ligur back then with, uh, holy water," Crowley said, though curiously almost looking a bit awkward about it, as if even demons had limits to which they didn't want to sink. "I suppose something similar would be useful. Do you have any more of..." he waved in the general direction of the weapons in the Winchesters' hands and on the table," "...that?"

"Some in the Impala, some in the hotel," Sam replied. "You think any of that will be effective against Hastur?"

"It'll distract him at the very least," Crowley nodded. "I might be able to come up with something if I see what you've got." He gave a small grin that probably could be classed as licetious. "So I guess that means we're going to your place instead of mine."

"Seeing as your place burst into flames yesterday, yeah," Dean grunted as the small troupe walked out of the warehouse and towards their cars. Of course, the Bentley had technically been parked in front of Crowley's apartment, but because that didn't occur to its owner, it now stood next to the Impala. Both Sam and Aziraphale dutifully waited next to their passenger doors as Dean threw some of their excess weapons into the back and Crowley seemed to be rooting around for a tape before he'd let the angel in.

"So...Heaven doesn't mind?" the younger Winchester simply had to ask. "That you're currently helping a _demon_? I mean, Cas not getting on your case because you, I dunno, hatched him or something is one thing, but..."

Aziraphale looked upwards. "Well, there's still the smiting of evil involved, I suppose. Generally, they're in favour of that sort of thing. Though I don't suppose we can rely on any help if things turn...unfortunate."

"Right," Sam nodded. "Um, I guess thanks for helping, then. I think you're actually okay, for an angel."

Aziraphale smiled back for a moment, and was only interrupted by a simultaneous

"Angel! Get in the car!" and "Sam! We ain't got all day!" that meant that both book shop owner and hunter only exchanged another, long-suffering glance before joining their short-tempered partners in the car and letting them drive off, the Impala leading the way to the hotel with the Bentley following behind.

xxx

When they arrived at the hotel, Dean hurled a cassette out of the car window.

" _What the HELL_!"

Crowley hadn't even parked the Bentley yet, when the older Winchester was already at his window and looked like he was about to reach through and strangle the demon. He was holding another cassette in his hand, which he seemed to wish to shove somewhere.

Crowley looked at him over the rim of his sunglasses.

"Let me guess," the demon said slowly, "Suddenly _Best of Queen_ collection?"

"I had put together music for my car," Dean said, and his growl sounded dangerous enough to let a hell hound seem more like a disabled Chihuahua in comparison, " _Good_ music. _And this isn't it_."

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said, getting out of the passenger side. "Really sorry. Your car must have stood next to the Bentley too long. It has this...uh, habit."

"What, turning music into Queen?" Sam asked, his lips twitching to show that it was meant as a joke, but neither of their two new companions smiled back.

Sam blinked. " _Seriously_?"

"We're not sure why," Aziraphale admitted, looking faintly apologetic. With a side glance to Crowley he added: "Did _you_ know it was contagious?"

"I HATE THIS WEIRD COUNTRY!" Dean howled, before staring at the mismatched pair of angel and demon with wide eyes. "Seriously, what is _wrong_ with you? Why does stuff like this keep happening here? Why is everybody _insane?_ "

Crowley frowned. "Hey, this has nothing to do with us personally. 'sides, it's been like, what, three days since you're in town and we're down two burnt-out buildings, three cases of possession and one free-running duke of hell with a Hannibal Lector-wannabe in tow?" The demon raised an eye brow. "They say some people throw with stones when they're in a glass house, but you're the first ones who seem to have brought a rocket launcher."

"And when it comes to weirdness, you had that one episode with the racist truck," Aziraphale pointed out. When people turned to stare, he added, "I, ah, may have read one or two of their books. I thought it would be helpful research."

"Was it?"

"No."

"Yeah, remind me to kill Chuck the next time we see him," grumbled Dean. "So what now, your car... _infected_ mine?" he asked. It sounded like he was accusing the Bentley of having gotten the Impala pregnant.

"I'd say it's temporary." Crowley shrugged. "If it isn't, your angel friend should be able to fix it when this is over."

"I hope so," Dean said sourly. "If I have to go on a roadtrip with no one but Freddy Mercury for eight hours straight, I'll drive us all over a cliff."

Sam made a _definite_ mental note to get Cas to fix this before they drove anywhere again. The four of them walked into the hotel, Crowley leaving his car standing in the middle of the parking lot where it of course blocked the exits of at least three other vehicles. He and Aziraphale followed Sam and Dean up the hallway to their room, the demon making it a point to sniff at the dinghy corridor a little where he made up the rear of their procession.

"This is your secret base, then?" Crowley commented as he stepped through the doorway of the room. In his opinion, it didn't look at all like it should.

There were two beds, one of them an unmade mess, the other done up neatly but with some sort of garish white dress on top, a table with a slightly banged-up laptop and some scattered maps and notes, more knives in the tiny bathroom than anyone should really need even for serious shaving, and a heap of jam-smeared pastry wrapping paper next to the unmade bed.

Crowley sighed.

Sometimes, humans had no _style._

And then he abruptly froze on the doormat as if he'd walked into a wall.

The others turned around, because a demon banging its nose on an invisible barrier was not only noticeable, but also funny.

Crowley glared at them.

"You put a devil's trap underneath the doormat, didn't you."

"Standard precaution." Sam shrugged. "Just a moment," he said, retrieving what was presumably paint thinner from one of the duffel bags. "Don't move."

" _Very_ funny."

"We gotta take precautions, otherwise we're dead," Dean reminded him, sitting down in a seat and pulling out a beer while Sam carefully erased a part of the angry red line underneath the carpet and Crowley stepped out again.

"Charming. Anything else I should know?"

"Uh...maybe don't sit down on the bed," Sam said, because that's where Crowley had been headed. "Also, don't drink anything. And, uh, don't touch that. Or that. Maybe...maybe just stand there, okay?" the younger Winchester suggested, while the demon's stare was turning increasingly flat.

"I feel so welcome."

"You're not in Kansas anymore, Toto." Dean shrugged, but seemed to be thoroughly enjoying this. "Anyway, we should get a plan going. So. Which of our stuff is going to help against this Hastur guy?"

Crowley stalked through the apartment with the air of Indiana Jones in a reptile zoo as he looked at the various things the Winchesters owned, leaning down to peer at implements the way people might examine curios in a medieval torture exhibition. In the end, they determined that holy water probably would work, but Hastur would be on guard against that, the knife would definitely be effective, even if possibly not fatal, the suggestion of Sam drinking Crowley's blood for some excorcist powers only produced equally horrified looks from all involved parties, and their best shot apart from that would be an excorcism, which would be most effective if invoked by an angel.

"Not good," Crowley shook his head, frowning. "Excorcisms take too long. Aziraphale's going to have an angel blade sticking in his plaid chest before he's even finished the first half."

"Cas is pretty quick at those, actually. He just puts his hand on their head and they turn into Jack'O Lanterns," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, but Trenchcoat Thursday also acted like he's basically that army leader from _Mulan_ in his spare time." Crowley waved an irritable hand. "Me and the angel...we're not exactly close combat fighters, in case you couldn't tell."

"Not unless it involves muffins, no. I noticed," Dean retorted and Crowley didn't look like he'd grace that one with a reply, unless it involved turning _Dean_ into a muffin.

"Anyway," the demon said. " _If_ Aziraphale could get close, we'd have...some sort of a chance, at least. But..."

Crowley trailed off as he realized Aziraphale and, by extension the Winchesters, had stopped listening.

Which was not surprising, given that in their bathroom a widening circle of blue light had suddenly appeared and was now twinkling ominously.

"Oh," Aziraphale said. "Oh dear."

"What the-?" Dean began, as the angel quickly stepped past him and into the circle, standing a bit anxiously between the shower cabin and the bidet, and peering up into the light. The Winchesters turned to Crowley for an explanation, but saw that the demon was currently busy climbing into the closet.

"Hey! What is he doing?! And...and what are _you_ doing _?_ "

" _He's_ going to talk to Metatron. And if you'll excuse me, _I'm_ going to be a coat now."

"He's talking to...the voice of God...in our _toilet_?" Sam hissed at Dean, but his brother shushed him as suddenly, there was a booming voice filling the hotel room, drowning everything else out.

" _Aziraphale_."

"Um. Yes?"

" _There seems to have been much strife and demonic wiling in this place in your care._ "

"Oh. Yes. Working on that, actually. There...there are demons quarreling amongst themselves, I think."

" _I see. And how are you helping our cause in this?_ "

"I am encouraging mortals to thwart their wiles," Aziraphale replied brightly, while the demon currently pretending to be a snazzy suit in the Winchester's wardrobe rolled his eyes.

" _God-fearing mortals?_ " Metatron inquired.

"...possibly."

" _Aziraphale..."_

"Well, they don't seem to fear much, really. But they _honestly_ don't like demons!" the angel added quickly. "I'm sure that today will be another victory for our side."

"... _very well. For the glory of our Lord_."

"Oh. Yes. Glory. Definitely."

" _Amen_ ," Metatron said. The blue circle of grace vanished and Aziraphale seemed to relax for a second, right before the divine light flicked on again like a faulty bathroom bulb.

" _Oh, and Aziraphale?_ "

"Yes?" the angel asked, now wearing an expression not unlike Castiel's when it had been the older angel himself calling his name for one last time.

" _There seems to be an ex-Satanic Vessel somewhere on the British subcontinent. You might want to do something about that_."

xxx

"Ex-Satanic Vessel?" Crowley asked with one eyebrow raised as Metatron's presence had vanished again, this time for good. The taller of the two brothers very pointedly wasn't looking at him.

"Yeah, that would be me. _Not_ what I had in mind at career day, okay?" Sam replied, a bit sourly, but also with a hint of wariness. After all, Metatron had just told Aziraphale to 'do something' about him. "I actually managed to get Lucifer back into his cage, you know? We had our own botched apocalypse some time back," he added, just so that Aziraphale, who was apparently cut off from most of Heaven's affairs nowadays wouldn't get the wrong picture.

"I see," the angel nodded. "Alright then. I'll let you live and Crowley can chalk it up as a wile, shall I?" Aziraphale smiled at Sam in a way that was only a bit unnerving. "And now that we've finished with that bit, we can start figuring out-"

And that was when suddenly, the TV in the hotel room sprang to life, only showing two glowing red eyes, Aziraphale shut the bathroom door with a _bang!_ and Crowley all but fell out of the closet when the screen started talking.

"CROWLEY? THIS IS BEELZEBUB. ARE YOU THERE CROWLEY?"

Dean made a face like he was about to shout that this was a damn hotel and NOT communication central, but Sam just managed to clamp his hand over his brother's mouth, and the next five minutes were spent watching Crowley wheedling his way through a conversation not quite unlike Aziraphale's, with the exception that his mumbled 'Hail Satan's possibly sounded even more insincere than the angel's affirmations of loyalty.

"WHAT IS IT WITH THE UNAUTHORIZED POSSESSIONS IN YOUR AREA CROWLEY?"

"Look, this isn't me, this is Hastur-"

"WE HAVE ORDERS NOT TO DRAW ATTENTION AT THE MOMENT CROWLEY."

"Yes, I know, but-"

"YOU HAVE UNTIL TONIGHT TO GET THIS UNDER CONTROL."

"Argh. Yes."

"ALL HAIL THE KING OF HELL."

"Yeah. Hail him. Whoo," Crowley replied miserably.

The TV shut itself off and the demon slumped into the chair, assuming an air of boneless misery. Aziraphale poked his head out of the bathroom.

"So, a deadline, then, huh?" Dean asked. He was now more than curious what Hell might be planning that they were so gung-ho about keeping a low profile, but he kind of figured the demon would probably neither know nor be interested.

"Yeah," Crowley grumbled. "So by tonight either I can get rid of Hastur or I'll be dragged down to hell by him _or_ them."

"Well, let's see what we can do that it doesn't come to that," Aziraphale replied soothingly and Crowley nodded, making a derisive noise that sounded too hissy for a human mouth.

"New management," he said it like the word tasted bad. "I mean, hell is run by a _human_ demon now, can you imagine?" he asked Sam and Dean, who for some reason didn't seem _that_ surprised, but Crowley ignored it, "Some bloke named Corey, or Rowdy, or something equally inane," the fallen angel grumbled. "And suddenly they're trying to micro-manage everyone. I mean half the time the tosser isn't even _there_ and from us he wants bloody _spreadsheets_?" Crowley asked, right before he actually noticed the Winchesters staring at him.

"...what?" he asked.

"The...new king of hell," Sam finally said, slowly. "You think he is called _Corey_?"

"Yeah," Crowley replied with a frown. "Something along those lines, anyway. Why, what's it to you?"

But at this point the Winchesters had already burst out laughing, and Crowley only shared a rather confused look with Aziraphale, both already figuring there might be things about humans they would _never_ understand.

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right! Fav parts? Terrible parts? Lemme hear it! :D Thanks for reading!


	13. Swan Song

"Dean. Are you sure this will work?“ Castiel sounded a bit sceptical still. 

  


"Yeah, yeah,“ the hunter waved him off. "Trust me, it'll be fine.“ 

  


"I know the voice of an angel is a powerful weapon, but...“ Castiel trailed off, the uncertainty in his tone not vanishing. 

  


"As much as it pains me to admit it, I'm also certain that this is the only chance we have of defeating Hastur and Alastair,“ Aziraphale said, casting down his eyes. Even after wracking their brains for the better part of an afternoon, none of them had been able to come up with anything but the plan they currently had. Unfortunately, this had also required them to call for Castiel again, especially after Sam and Dean had explained that even Alastair, who already was the weaker of the two, was still so strong an ordinary excorcism wouldn't even work. (And Crowley had been quick to tell everybody that, if any excorcising should be attempted still, to bloody well watch out where one aimed these things). 

  


"It is a...strange plan,“ Castiel said, still frowning. "I must admit that this spell you wish me to invoke is unknown to me.“ 

  


"Oh, it's a _very_ ancient chant, you probably wouldn't know it,“ Crowley replied airily, (utterly ignoring the smiting hand of the angel in the trenchcoat, which was already twitching....) "But yeah, powerful magic right there. That should give us an opening to work with, if you do it right.“ 

  


Castiel glanced from each one of their little troupe to the other. Dean gave a sort of helpless shrug, implying that he also didn't have any better ideas, Sam looked like he had a tooth ache but didn't say anything, and Aziraphale only offered a faintly apologetic smile. 

  


"I'm sorry we needed to summon you again, I know you're busy with this project of yours, but unfortunately, since neither Crowley or me have been in any close combat for a while now, we need your experience.“ 

  


"I...I understand that,“ Castiel said, nodding. Privately, Sam wondered what exactly was going on in the blonde angel's head that he kept referring to Castiel's leading a faction in a _celestial civil war_ like he was working on something for a third grade science fair, but...

  


"Then there's nothing more needing to be said,“ Dean summed everything up curtly. "Thanks for helping out again, Cas,“ he added somewhat more quietly, his expression softening for a moment as he briefly locked eyes with the younger angel. Some of the worry lines smoothed out on Castiel's face as Dean said it, and Sam then also privately wondered whether they could somehow be _more_ obvious. Thankfully, Dean seemed to notice it, too, and then cleared his throat. 

  


"Alright, then. Shall we get going?“ 

  


"Yes. We'll need somewhere with a brick wall in the background,“ Crowley said. "We should make for the warehouse district again where they abducted me, this way at least we can avoid further mortal casualties in the battle.“

  


Dean threw him a look. "Wow. Anybody ever tell you you _really_ suck at this demon thing?“ 

  


" _Bite_ me.“ Crowley glowered. 

  


xxx

"Okay. Everyone in position?“ Crowley asked. They were indeed in the exact same warehouse they had been earlier today, only now it was nearly night time and the mentioned deadline for Crowley drawing ever closer. Both of the angels were getting antsy now, a sure sign that one or more powerful demons had to be on the rise. At least they would surely be able to find them, since everybody involved by now knew this location, so there wouldn't have to be any chasing around in the dark outside, where they could be seen by anyone. Castiel was in front of them, fingers wrapped tightly around his angel blade, Sam stood behind him, clutching his knife while Dean had had to make do with a bottle of holy water. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had picked any helpful weapons in the end (though the latter was for some reason holding onto a crowbar. Sam had asked him whether it was a magic crowbar, but had only received a stare in reply, that seemed to suggest that _he_ was the insane one). 

  


"Yeah,“ Dean grunted toward Crowley. "We have our part down if you know yours.“ 

  


"Okay,“ the demon said. "Just don't forget to-“

  


But then there was suddenly smoke emanating from the cracks in the cement, and Sam and Dean never got to find out _what_ they shouldn't forget, because the next second, Alastair and Hastur stood in front of them, power rolling off both of them like waves and feeling like a punch to the gut. 

  


"Well, well, well,“ Hastur drawled, an almost bored expression on his face. The body he was wearing now looked gaunt, dusty and leathery, a yellowish, sulphur-like tinge to a skin stretched taut over thin cheekbones and crinkled fingers. His dark brown coat and pants, beige shirt and brown waistcoat were of equally aged appearance, the entire demon looking like he would store his body, just like his clothes, folded neatly in a suitcase in the cellar when he wasn't using it, and had never bothered with ironing. His voice, despite its posh accent, also sounded like a rusty mechanism, something that was never used regularly and was therefore now slightly screechy. "What have we here?“ He asked, giving Castiel in front of the troupe a condescending look. "Another defect angel, I suppose?“

  


"I am not _defect_ ,“ Castiel ground out, raising his sword threateningly. 

Alastair snorted. "Oh, please. You _know_ that you don't stand a chance against a duke of hell. Hell, you barely stood a chance against _me_ ,“ he pointed out, giving Castiel, Dean and Sam a leer, before returning his gaze to the tie-wearing angel. "Angels are supposed to be logical, feathers,“ he said. "No sense in fighting on the losing side. Yet you seem to intent on throwing your existence away for these two.“ He nodded at the Winchesters. "I think I met someone here in London who said that 'Love is a defect found on the losing side'...“ he trailed off in a deprecatory grin, before raising an eye brow. "But of course, for that you would need to be able to feel love, which I believe angels aren't meant to. Hence, defect. Or would you try to tell me you don't love?“ Alastair finished, licking his lips. Castiel threw a brief, questioning glance backwards at Dean, but the hunter only nodded at him briefly. 

"I'm...not a stranger to love, no,“ the younger angel said, not dropping his gaze as he stared the two demons down, not blinking. "But that doesn't matter here. You know the rules of engagement, and so do I.“ 

Now it was Hastur's turn to frown. "I can't remember agreeing to any rules, angel,“ he hissed. "The only reason I haven't torn you all to shreds so far is because your nervousness has been amusing, but that is quickly coming to an end.“

"What kind of rules are you even talking about?“ Alastair asked, eyes narrowing. "Something's off here-“ 

"Well, it's a...full commitment I'm thinking of,“ Castiel replied awkwardly, once again casting a slightly uncomfortable glance back at Dean and the others, but now all of them were only giving him energetic 'Continue! Continue!' handwaves, and so he faced the Duke and chief torturer again, and, in the exact same deadpan, said: "You wouldn't get this from any other guy.“ He paused. "What kind of spell _is_ this, Dean?“ 

  


"No,“ Alastair interrupted at this point, apparently finally realizing something. "No. You are _not_ doing this, this is-!“ he started to say, while Hastur mostly looked confused, but then was drowned out by all of four people shouting, 

  


"The chorus, Cas! You gotta sing the chorus! NOW!“ 

  


"Take the microphone!“ Crowley yelled, throwing a small black item to the angel in the trenchcoat, before then clamping his hands over his own ears, as Cas fumblingly caught the mic, gave everyone assembled in the warehouse one last, _seriously_ doubtful look, but then took a breath and - 

  


„ _Never gonna give you up,_  
 _Never gonna let you down_  
 _Never gonna run around and desert you!“_

  


In the warehouse, Dean was now doing some version of the Harlem shake, Sam sat more or less embarassed in a corner, Crowley was cowering with his hands over his ears because Rick Astley or not, angelic singing _was_ extremely painful for a demon and Aziraphale was doing his best to provide back-up vocals while an increasingly confused Castiel stumbled his way through ' _Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye – Dean what am I singing_?! _'_. 

  


As for Alastair and Hastur, the latter didn't seem to grasp quite what was going on, while the first one seemed ready to explode. 

  


"Okay, screw this, we're _leaving_. This chapter has gotten too silly for words.“ 

  


"But- but-!“ Hastur protested. "I don't understand! I should still be able to lay waste to their bodies and scorch their eyeballs and-!“ 

  


"Yeah, trust me, we're not going to have any power until midnight,“ Alastair replied dyrly. "It's a....special holiday today.“ 

  


"A holiday?!“ Hastur repeated in confusion,“No, it isn't. The closest blessed day is Easter, and even that is three weeks away, this doesn't make any sen-!“

  


"Yeah, not _that_ kind of holiday,“ Alastair grumbled. "This one's a bit more...secular. _And_ a bit more insane,“ he added pointedly. "We're leaving, for now,“ the human demon said to the dancing troupe, though he took care to lace those last words with as much threat as possible, before then whirling around and pointing straight at the computer screen "And as for _you_ , the _next_ author trying a joke update today will find themselves straight on my own personal RACK!“ 

  


_To be continued...(with an actual chapter, no worries)...tomorrow. :p Happy April Fool's/international rickroll day, everybody! :D_

  



	14. Let's Get Down To Business (To Defeat the Hastur)

"Sooo, ganking Hastur. Our best shot is getting Aziraphale close for a direct excorcism, but you're sure that would be a bad idea.“ 

"Pretty much,“ Crowley nodded. "I...wouldn't want him to die because Hastur's hunting _me,_ “ the demon said, though he wasn't looking at Dean. 

They were currently alone in the room, Sam having gone outside to retrieve more equipment from the Impala and Aziraphale unsurprisingly having offered his help. 

Dean was now looking Crowley up and down very carefully. A demon making deals to save his own skin was nothing new. 

A demon jeopardizing his own life to protect an _angel_ was. 

The older Winchester narrowed his eyes. 

"...you're not very good at this whole demonic thing, are you?“

Crowley glared at him over his sunglasses. 

"Shout it from the rooftops, why don't you.“ 

"That's what I thought. Because your evil deeds, dude, they _suck_.“

"Excuse me?!“ Now Crowley actually seemed insulted. "My wiles are top notch, thank you! I keep telling people, corrupting souls isn't about quality but quantity, but will anyone ever _appreciate_ my work? Nooo, of course not.“ 

"What?“ Dean asked, now honestly lost. Crowley waved an irritable hand. 

"Most demons try to rake in souls one by one. Your average cross roads demon? Hangs around forever, and _maybe_ makes a couple of deals a year. Succubi trying to corrupt priests take even longer. Not to mention that kind of blatantly obvious blundering about more often than not gets them noticed and excorcized by the likes of _you_ ,“ the demon explained, somehow giving off the exasperated air of someone who had held a particular lecture many times. 

"...okay,“ Dean said, although he had no idea where Crowley was going with this. "And you...?“ 

"Ohhh, I'm more ssubtle,“ the demon replied with a smile, and now there actually seemed to be some pride in his tone. "I corrupt whole-sale. Bit by bit, blackening hundreds of souls little by little.“ 

"Huh?“ 

"Like, for example, roadworks that seem to take forever.“ 

"Oh yeah, hate those,“ Dean replied automatically. "But what's that got to do with-“

"I invented those.“ 

"Wait, what?“

"Oh yeah,“ Crowley replied, smiling at the surprise on the hunter's face. "I'm also responsible for hotel plastic card keys that never work, restaurants being fresh out of dessert despite it still being an hour until closing time, and the Z-block appearing when you don't need it in Tetris,“ the demon counted off smugly. 

Dean blinked, leaning forward. "You,“ he said, somewhat hoarsely, " _Invented_ the Z-block?“

Crowley grinned. "Yup.“ 

And it was at that point that Sam and Aziraphale walked back in right as Dean's fist was landing squarely in Crowley's face. 

_"That is for every single Tetris game I lost!“_

"Dean! What the hell!“ 

"You ssstupid hairless ape-!“ 

"Stop it, Crowley!“ 

Dean had tensed up as the demon's eyes had started glowing red, the hunter already expecting to be thrown against a wall next (this had happened so often by now that Sam and Dean had already developed their very own rating system for wall-softness – the car trips sometimes could be very boring), but Aziraphale had raised a hand and Crowley relaxed again, the red print Dean's fist had left on his cheekbone vanishing. 

The demon glared at both the angel and the hunter. 

"He _hit_ me.“

"Were you telling him about the Tetris, dear?“ 

"...maybe. He _asked_ ,“ Crowley pointed out plaintively. 

"Yes, I'm sure he did. But you know how difficult it can be for people to find out about our involvement.“ 

Crowley's lips settled into a sulk. "He just doesn't understand my genius,“ he muttered. And thought he probably shouldn't mention his involvement in the invention of blue shells in that case. 

Sam and Aziraphale were now setting more demon-destroying stuff on the table and Crowley scooted a bit backwards. 

"You still haven't answered my question,“ the younger Winchester said to the angel, indicating there might have been a conversation going on before they came back in. "What is the Guardian angel of the Eastern gate of Eden doing in Soho?“ 

"I was sort of...relocated,“ Aziraphale replied, looking uncomfortable. 

"What, Heaven has a department rotating system?“ Dean grunted. 

"Uh, no. I lost my post because I...misplaced the flaming sword I was given,“ the angel now looked faintly guilty. 

"You _misplaced_ your flaming sword?“ Sam asked, one eye brow raised. 

"Actually, he gave it to you lot,“ Crowley drawled as he was a bit gingerly picking his way through the equipment. not looking up from the gear on the table. 

Aziraphale didn't look at them. "They had just been cast out,“ he said quietly. "It was the first rain, and they looked so cold. She was pregnant, too,“ he said, and now looked at the two hunters in a way as if he was almost asking _them_ for forgiveness. 

"Wait,“ Sam said and Dean could see he was currently making that face that meant he was thinking very, very fast. "You're talking about Adam and Eve, aren't you? That means... _you_ gave the humans fire? Like Prometheus?“ 

"Wanna explain that to rest of us, nerd?“ Dean asked, and Sam looked at him with that kind of expression that should have annoyed Dean because of its lecture-y-ness, but didn't, because it meant his kid brother was excited about something. 

"Prometheus,“ Sam clarified, "The first hero in Greek lore. He stole fire from the gods and gave it to mankind.“ He nodded at Aziraphale. "That legend might be based on him.“ 

Crowley raised an eye brow, but Aziraphale actually seemed to blush at the statement and that was a first for an angel. 

But to Dean, something else was more interesting. 

"So...you weren't punished for giving it away? Most of what I heard they don't take very kindly to ideas of free will up there.“ 

"Well...“ Aziraphale fidgeted a bit. "The Lord _did_ tell me I would fall.“ 

"But you didn't,“ Sam stated, and now both Winchesters were interested, because this was the first non-archangel who claimed that he had actually spoken to God directly. "What made Him change His mind?“

The angel gave a tired smile, as if remembering something that had happened a long time ago but to him might still have been clear as day. 

"I said it might be worth the fall of an angel if it meant the rise of an ape,“ he said. "I think He liked it. I didn't fall, though I did lose my post. My new assignment since then has been mostly to live on Earth and encourage mankind since I apparently liked them so much,“ Aziraphale said the last sentence with the air of quoting somebody, but he did so fondly. 

Dean leaned forward, interrupting the reverent air. 

"You _are_ aware that God is kinda AWOL, right?“

The angel gave a small shrug. "I know it can seem that way. But it's true that His ways are ineffable.“ 

"Ineffa-whu-?“ started Dean, but Crowley stopped him. 

"Don't. Seriously, don't. We'd be here for _days_.“

"What happened to the flaming sword?“ Sam asked curiously, not only because he thought it might help in their current fight with Hastur and Alastair, but also because he remembered how Castiel was still hunting around for divine weapons to use against Raphael. Dean also looked newly interested, but Sam correctly assumed this was mostly because his brother thought 'flaming sword' sounded _awesome_. 

Aziraphale cocked his head a little. "Well...the last one to wield it was War. I'm not sure where it went after this whole business with the apocalypse was over, though.“ 

"War?“ Dean frowned. "We saw him. He didn't have a sword.“ 

"'Him'?“ Crowley laughed. "War is a woman, boy. War has _always_ been a woman.“ 

"Yeah, I'm _pretty_ _sure_ he was a guy,“ Dean retorted. "Not many salt and pepper ladies with a receding hairline around these parts.“ 

The demon snorted. "Nah. Believe me, kid, War is a woman. So blessedly beautiful and enticing from a distance that the men of your species used to run after her for millenia, only to find out up close that she's not very pretty or romantic at all.“ He gave a cold smile. When Dean looked like he was about to protest again, he waved a hand. 

"If you've seen anyone claiming to be her, it probably was one of her delegates. Possibly Riot. Drive a big sports car?“ 

"Yeah...“ Dean replied with a frown and Crowley nodded. 

"That'll be him. War works as a reporter and rides a motorcycle. Last time I heard, she was in North Korea.“ Crowley shrugged. "She has had the sword for a while now. Not the angel's fault,“ – he briefly looked over at Aziraphale who still seemed faintly guilty – "but that's humanity for ya. Give them fire, they make war.“ 

  


"Well, our sides tried to destroy the planet,“ Aziraphale pointed out in a reasonable tone, adding, "Twice, apparently. I think we agreed humanity is a _good_ thing?“ 

  


"I suppose,“ Crowley said, sounding like he was making somewhat of a concession on that one. "Not that it's going to matter much if Hastur comes on up tonight and decides to level half of London,“ he added glumly. 

  


"Yeah, about that,“ Dean said, standing up again. "What are we gonna do about it? Less talking and more practical planning please, Ladies.“ 

  


"We don't technically have a gender,“ Crowley pointed out, but it still sounded like the demon was a bit miffed at the address. "How do you usually deal with powerful enemies, anyway?“ 

  


"We, uh, usually wait until they look the other way and then we stab them,“ Sam said. He had to admit himself that this didn't sound very professional. 

  


"Really,“ Crowley said. 

  


"Sometimes one of us distracts them and then the other comes up from beh – look, it _works_ , okay?!“ Sam replied, now seeming to get somewhat pissy at Crowley's unimpressed stare. "We're humans, okay? We push stuff down into pits. We yell 'Look over there!' and then we backstab. Taking down stronger things when they're not paying attention is practically what we _do_.“ 

  


"Okay, okay,“ Crowley raised his hands. If he was completely honest, at the moment he wasn't able to come up with a much better plan himself. After all, the last time _he_ had tried to stop a Big Bad, he had gone into battle with nothing but a crowbar. 

  


"How long approximately until Hastur and Alastair get here?“ Dean asked, apparently trying to keep this flying circus of a conversation on track if it killed him. 

  


Crowley grimaced. "I'm thinking he's now going in for the kill - ascend in something like his true form. As in, a bespoke body, like mine and Aziraphale's. It takes some time to apply for one, but when he does have it, he could tear us all to shreds.“

  


"How long?“ Dean repeated again, in the tone of voice of a man who _had_ been torn to shreds before and hadn't been all that impressed. 

  


Crowley ran a hand through his black hair, "A demon of his status versus hell's bureaucracy...I'd say he'll be here by midnight.“ 

  


"With Alastair in tow,“ Dean added grimly. 

  


"So we need to figure out a way to distract Hastur, a duke of hell, so Aziraphale can perform that excorcism. While Alastair will be doing everything he can to kill us,“ Sam summed it up. "Fantastic.“ 

  


"Do you know anything that could distract Hastur sufficiently?“ Aziraphale asked, but Crowley only shook his head.

  


"Look, I've been doing my damndest to stay _out_ of that guy's way for the past several millennia. And we don't exactly have celeb demon mags down there to read about the nobility.“ With a look at Sam and Dean, he added: "I invented those, by the way. Fostering jealousy like nobody's business.“

  


"Great. I'll call you if we ever need help saving the world with an _editorial,_ “ Dean replied with a touch of sarcasm, earning another slight glare from yellow eyes. 

  


"Hey, if you're the tall and brawny all-American army here, I'll gladly leave that battle to you,“ Crowley said glibly. "Why don't you call in your trenchcoat warrior, if he's the big excorcising cheese, and Aziraphale can stay out of the fire?“ 

  


"Cas is _busy_ ,“ Dean replied coldly. "Besides, he's got a lot on his plate right now, so the last thing I want is for him to get banged up wrestling with some dangerous hell mo'fo that isn't even his responsibility in the first place.“ 

  


"Okay, okay,“ Crowley held his hands up to stop the argument and Sam thought that if this hadn't been a life-or-death situation, watching both Dean and Crowley both trying to be the bigger protector of their respective angels might even have been funny. 

  


"Besides, the last time Cas tried to excorcise even only Alastair, it didn't even work. Sam had to take care of him,“ Dean added. "If that Hastur freak is even more powerful, I don't know squat what to do about _him_.“ 

  


"So we need to do some more research,“ Sam said, and Dean winced, already knowing where this was leading. 

  


"Spend the day buried in the angel's book store?“ he asked miserably. Sam nodded, and while both the resident demon and the older Winchester looked less than thrilled, Aziraphale actually seemed somewhat pleased at this notion of where to spend your possibly last day alive. 

  


xxx

  


The doorbell jingled as Crowley entered, the door conveniently forgetting it was supposed to be locked. After him, Aziraphale and the Winchester brothers trooped into the shop, dumping the bag with the equipment Crowley had deemed suitable against Hastur on the floor. Dean slumped down in a seat, opening the laptop he had brought in a hopeful attempt to maybe avoid having to read an actual book, while Aziraphale wandered off to a particular shelf and started going through the titles, trailed by a mildly curious-looking Sam. Crowley discovered something on the kitchen table. 

  


"Angel?“ 

  


"Yes?“ 

  


"There's a note on your desk here. Says ' _Lizard stuff taken care of, PLEASE NO MORE DIMENSIONAL PORTALS,_

_Love,_

_the Doctor_.'“ 

  


The demon raised an eye ridge. 

  


"Do I know this person?“ 

  


"Oh, he passes by,“ Aziraphale replied a bit distractedly. "Nice fellow. _Really_ likes books.“ 

  


"Right,“ Crowley replied with a bit of a confused frown. 

  


"And he sometimes leaves me absolutely _wonderful_ hot chocolate as a present,“ the angel added, walking over and picking up another small bag that had been lying next to the note and which was indeed emanating a slightly sweet chocolate smell. Aziraphale smiled. "It does taste as if it was out of this world, I swear-“ 

  


Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah. And now, let's stop talking hot chocolare and start discussing slaying freakin' hell beasts from the pit, because in five hours' time we need something that packs more punch than even an excorcism from a _damn_ _angel_ , in case you have forgot-“

  


"Wait, there's a PS,“ Crowley interrupted him, having turned the small note around. "Says ' _Oh, and for your hell thing - look at the FUN bookcase!'_.“ The demon looked up. 

  


"Okay, angel, just _who_ exactly-?“

  


"The 'fun' bookcase?“ Dean asked flatly, apparently having long since given up on protesting when weird strangers knew way more than they should.

  


"There's this shelf with fantasy books and stuff,“ Sam replied, nodding toward the case with the brightly coloured novels inside. "Also has _us_ ,“ he added with a grimace. 

  


"Yeeeah, not touching those,“ Dean said carefully. "How are they supposed to help, anyway?“ 

  


"Maybe it wasn't referring to your series,“ Aziraphale said, looking thoughtfully at the shelf, his eyes roving over the other colourful titles standing next to _Supernatural._ Everyone else's gaze followed his, and Crowley's stopped at a particular seven-volume series. 

  


"Wait, I think I may have an idea...“ 

  


xxx

  


"THEY! THEY WERE THE ONES WHO FOILED ME IN THE CAFE!“ 

  


A few metaphorical stories down below, literally all hell was currently breaking loose. Several smaller demons and Imps had already hastily vacated the premises of Hastur's department, and most of them were still accelerating. This was mostly because the duke of hell himself, now once more in his own body, was currently tearing anything he could get his hands on apart, and that also included any unfortunate personal. 

  


"THEY RUINED EVERYTHING!“ the duke roared, breaking his Crowley dartboard in half. 

  


"Yeah. They have that habit,“ Alastair agreed, the human demon only sounding a tad bit resigned at that statement. 

  


"Alright,“ Hastur hissed, turning around. "No more puny posssessions. I will ascend in my true form, and I shall lay _waste_ to their homes and devour their _corpses_ and drag that wretch Crawly with me to hell where he shall _wish_ he would be only subjected to the torture I will heap upon those _miserable_ Chinwenches-!“

  


"Winchesters.“ 

  


" _Whatever_ their name is, it shall frighten children to hear it when I am done with them because no one will ever have felt as much _pain_!“ Hastur bellowed, not letting himself be interrupted in a good rage fit, much in the manner of most seasoned middle management executives.

  


"You better plan that well, then,“ Alastair replied calmly. "Actually, both of them have been down here already. I think they've started treating death as some sort of revolving door.“ 

  


"Oh, that won't be a concern,“ Hastur growled like a wounded tiger. "I am a duke of hell,“ he said, and curiously, the corners of the room seemed to grow darker as he said it, the gaunt from of the high-ranking demon now somehow looking taller without him having moved at all, "I will ascend in my true form. When I am done with _any_ one of those three, there won't be anything _left_ that you could scrape out of the depths of Dis...“ he hissed, and his voice was a tone that would have melted a mortal coil on the spot as the infernal duke spread his dark wings. 

  


The effect was only _slightly_ ruined by one last, forgotten retriever puppy gnawing enthusiastically on his pointy shoe.

  


_To be continued..._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right then! Everybody recovered from April fools? :p Have a (slightly late) real chapter, then, hope you liked, and if you read, please review!^^


	15. Battle Without Honour (But Lots Of Humanity)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Warning. This chapter gets...kind of...bloody. ^^° SPN!canon-typical violence, I guess?

"Lalala! I am absolutely defenceless! Oh no! If someone came and attacked me now that would be really really bad!"

A warehouse not far from where they had been this morning seemed currently less like a warehouse and more like a poor building abused for what could be classified as community theatre.

"I sure hope demons won't show up, like, right now!"

With Crowley as its one single, terrible actor.

" _Especially_ dukes of hell! No sirree, sure wouldn't want that!"

The man-shaped being in a suit was currently standing in the centre of the empty warehouse, and dramatically proclaiming more lines that seemed to have escaped from a universe populated entirely by exposition fairies. Right now, he was also adding gestures, which consisted covering his eyes with the back of his hand dramatically, before then immediately sneaking a surreptitious glance from underneath. All in all, the warehouse probably had turned into a cartoon at some point.

"Can you tell him to take this more seriously?!" a hiss in a voice that was unmistakeably Dean's finally interrupted the melodrama, and Crowley immediately looked offended..

"Hey! I didn't volunteer for this gig!" the demon hissed back and was immediately shushed by all three of his companions trying unsuccessfully to hide behind a few empty cardboard boxes. Sam privately wondered whether he'd ever been part of a more unprofessional monster hunt and whether or not this was currently even worse than working with the ghostfacers.

"Okay, this is officially the worst plan ev-"

"Wait. I think I can feel Hastur ascending," Aziraphale interrupted the younger Winchester and immediately everyone went quiet. And wished there was still someone they could pray to for their desperate strategy to be a success.

xxx

The earth started to tremble. The walls started to shake. Bits and pieces of plaster and stone rained down around them, the windows dancing in their frames like ballet artists in a panic. The three people behind the behind the cardboard boxes immediately quieted down and edged somewhat closer together and even Crowley had stopped his theatrics.

"That...doesn't sound like a normal demon," said Dean, his voice hoarse.

"It's not," Aziraphale replied quietly.

Sam thought the floor didn't look right anymore. It was...shifting.

Crowley took a step back.

Black smoke had started to emanate from between the cracks in the floor now. It wasn't erupting from the ground like the demonified human souls Sam and Dean were used to, but came rather slowly, like a poisonous fog seeping out, snatching at their ankles. The air in the warehouse had turned cold.

"Should we...?" Sam began, but stopped himself as the smoke then suddenly began to rise dramatically, forming a column in the centre of the hall, billowing and turning akin the funnel of a whirlwind. The air was stirring in the room now, beginning to lift up scraps of paper and dust, tugging at their hair and clothes like insistent, ghostly cold fingers. Dean gripped the handle of his weapon more tightly.

And Hastur appeared like a shadow grown from the ground, for a moment as surreal and as vast and as terrifying as a nightmare, before his form then seemed to _collapse_ into something that was more or less human shaped, - except that when you looked at him, a part of your brain still told you that he really, _really_ wasn't.

"Hello, boys."

And like a disease following a flooding, Alastair stepped out right from behind them, wearing his usual form and giving them all a brown-toothed grin. "Finally realized that running is useless, yes? That's a first for the Winchesters..."

"Shut up," Dean grunted through gritted teeth, eyes darting from the human demon they knew to the Fallen called Hastur, now ascended in what Crowley had said would represent his true essence best here on Earth.

At first glance, his chosen form didn't even look that ungainly, certainly not like some of the monsters the Winchesters had seen more than their fair share of. The body he was wearing mainly seemed gaunt, dusty and leathery, thinning, dark oily hair a contrast to the yellowish, sulphur-like tinge of his skin stretched taut over thin cheekbones and wrinkly fingers. His dark brown coat and pants, beige shirt and brown waistcoat were of equally aged appearance, the entire demon looking like he would store his body, just like his clothes, folded neatly in a suitcase in a damp cellar somewhere when he wasn't using it. Not something one would necessarily feel intimidated by, but...there was also something about Hastur that simply felt...heavier. It let your eyes water if you stared at it too long, but there seemed to be a _pull_ around him, something that just slightly distorted the air, warped the light, suggested that there was more, oh, _so_ much more lurking in the shadows just behind him, and it let the man seem like a person-shaped hole on this plane of reality.

And then, of course, there were his eyes.

They weren't black like Alastair's, of course, not even white like Lillith's (if they had but known her at the time), they also weren't red like a crossroad demon's, no, not exactly...looking into Hastur's gaze was like staring straight into hell.

And now, those eyes started to frown as they actually beheld their surroundings and their audience.

"Wait, what?" Hastur asked, staring at Sam and Dean. "What are _you_ doing here?" He turned to Alastair. "I thought we would have to hunt them down later. Why do these two keep showing up?"

The human demon gave his partner a long-suffering stare. "Believe me, that question has been asked by a _lot_ of demons and angels over the past six years."

"Is that so." Hastur's frown deepened. "I thought they had been created with a bit more self-preservation instinct." Then he shrugged. "Well, no matter. They'll be no bother one way or the other."

And he waved a hand that threw both Sam and Dean against the wall of the warehouse with a force enough to potentially break ribs. Another flick of his wrist let their arms fly out to the sides, their faces screwed up like they were in pain, their bodies straining against what appeared to be invisible bonds securing their wrists against the wall, letting them hang in the air helplessly, exchanging wide-eyed glances with each other. Hastur threw a glance at Alastair. "There. Your reward for your services, little worth though they were. Torture them, take them apart, or...eat them, or do whatever it is your kind do. I care lit-."

"No!"

It was Crowley who had shouted the word and interrupted Hastur, the demon having rushed forward (and now seemed almost equally surprised by his own action like everyone else). He stared at Hastur, hard.

"...leave them out of this. You're after me and no one else."

Hastur raised an eye brow.

"What are you, _compassionate_ now, Crawly?" he asked, briefly showing some discoloured teeth in a snarl. "You always were the most incompetent Fallen I knew."

"And look how I much care," Crowley replied coolly, before throwing a glance over his shoulder. "Aziraphale. Let them down."

"Uh. Right," the angel said, at first almost seeming startled at the address, but then hurriedly turned and waved a hand, which let the Winchester brothers drop to the floor again. Dean caught himself alright, but Sam stumbled with a gasp, which let the older hunter stare at the demons with utter murder in his eyes.

"You're going to pay for this," he hissed, before turning on the advancing Alastair, grabbing his younger brother's knife and positioning himself protectively between him and Sam. "Don't take even a _step_ further."

And Hastur saw all this...and laughed.

"Oh, Crawly! Crawly, Crawly, Crawly," he drawled, "What is this? Such a little demon against a duke of hell? With nothing but an aged, near obsolete traitor angel at your side?" he spread his fingers, a grin of stained teeth spreading on his face like a disease as he stepped closer. "But you never were that smart, were you? Let me show you what a _real_ Fallen can do before I _erase your miserable existence!_ "

The building shook as Hastur screamed the last sentence, his voice gaining a distinctly inhuman quality at the same time that the lights they had brought began to flicker like candles in a thunderstorm. Even Alastair and the Winchesters stopped trying to gain a tactical advantage on each other and simply stared. The shadows at the edges of the light were growing now, seemingly drawn to figure of Hastur in their midst as if he were a magnet for darkness, and they were growing thicker as he spoke, gaining substance, joining at his back to rise, casting the entire room into a deeper darkness as Crowley in front of him paled and took a step back. Dean's face communicated that he obviously didn't think that a great sign, and then Hastur's form simply seemed to _explode_ , bright, searingly white wings erupting from his back and they were burning with hellfire. They bathed the place in darkness, seemingly giving off an inverted version of firelight, sucking in what sources of brightness remained in the room like the burning event horizon of two pinion-shaped black holes. Sparks erupted from all over-charged electric devices and cables in the entire warehouse, and Dean and Sam's eyes widened as they had never felt that sort of power before short of coming head to head with Lucifer himself. Hastur swiped a claw-like hand forwards, curling his fingers into his palm as if he were crushing something, and Crowley reacted immediately, falling to his knees with a choked cry, clutching at his throat. Hastur snorted.

"Honestly, I thought you better than this," he said, "Even bringing your ridiculous, puny human pets..."

"They're...not _pets_ ," Crowley gasped, and then, even if he barely seemed to be getting enough air to speak, raised his head with what actually seemed to be a definite start of a smirk. "They're _hunters._ "

And it was at this point that Dean fired his shot gun and hit Hastur straight into the chest.

"Aaaaaaaaaaagh!"

Crowley leapt to his feet again the second Hastur flailed and stumbled, actual blood spurting from the wound. Dean managed to fire two more rounds into him before an enraged Alastair forced him to stop, launching himself at the Winchesters with a scream, ready to presumably fling them into another wall, this time more permanently, but was blocked by Aziraphale interrupting his gesture with a protective movement of his own.

"You will do nothing of the sort!"

"What...what in the world did you do to those bullets?!" Hastur shouted meanwhile, clutching at the holes in his chest that wouldn't stop bleeding, "That _hurt_!"

"They should," Dean smirked as he replied, "They have Devil's traps carved into them and were blessed by blondie over here."

"Listen, his Grace just wants the goddamn snake," Alastair snarled at Dean from where Aziraphale was still preventing him from getting a clear shot at lifting the hunter into the air and unravelling his organs like a freaking Christmas present, "And if you prevent him from getting his little revenge on that miserable excuse for a demon, _nobody_ of us is going to be very happy about it. So how about you two just beat it and let the _adults_ talk things out, hmm?"

"So you can hunt us down separetely later, right?" Dean asked, still trying to aim his gun at Hastur again while Crowley was scrambling to get out of firing range. "Let me think about it." he glanced down the barrel of the colt. "No."

"You wretched, pathetic dirt monkey, how _dare_ you-!" Hastur began, but then was interrupted for the second time.

"Sorry," said Sam who, while all the chattering had been going on had easily snuck up behind the Duke and was now raising the knife. "But wasting demons is kind of our gig." And he rammed the blade straight between the shoulder blades.

Hastur screamed. It was a far cry from how his earlier howl had sounded – that one had been enraged, but this one was pure agony. His wings flared up like someone had poured gasoline into their flames, shooting out and going rigid toward the ceiling, Sam barely avoiding being hit by them as he stumbled backwards. Light shot out the duke's eyes and mouth, head thrown back like they had seen so many times before as his skeleton lit up inside his body as if made of St Elmo's fire.

"Did...did that...?" Aziraphale began to stammer, almost at the same time as Alastair gave a frustrated "No!" but then both of them were drowned out by an even louder noise from Hastur, and this time, it _definitely_ sounded enraged.

"YOU! CRAWLY!"

"Eeep," the addressed demon managed.

"You...all of you blessed _vermin_...!" Hastur hissed, and now his movements were jerky, as if his body wasn't quite under his control anymore and perhaps half-dead, but still kept alive by sheer iron will and fury, "I will... _end_ you...!" the duke rasped, uprighting himself again while his wings kept flaring up and twitching, like appendages connected to a broken live wire, the shadows dancing across his face as a result letting him appear even madder than before.

"No one has ever dared to raise a grubby hand against me, and I will make _sure_ that no one ever will again," he snarled, his gaze darting from Sam, to Crowley, to the little group of three consisting of Alastair, Aziraphale and Dean, "I will fill your innards with hellfire and keep you alive while you _burn_ , I will cook your eyeballs in your own _tears_ until they resemble boiled eggs, I will pull out your intestines through your navel with a rusty spoon-!"

"Oh for fuck's sake, not this again," Alastair muttered. "Listen, it's _exactly_ villainous speeches like this that let your plans fail every time! I told you, you need to act like a _human_!" he shouted at Hastur. "Just for once, think outside the box! Like _this_!"

And then there was a _bang!_ as Alastair drew a gun and shot Sam straight in the head. The hunter collapsed without so much as a cry, only staring at his brother for a single moment in amazement, as if he hadn't even noticed yet he was dead.

Dean screamed like a wounded animal as his brother fell.

"SAMMY!"

"Eager to join him?" Alastair's eyes turned black as he pointed the gun at Dean and spread his other arm wide in a mock-inviting gesture. "Then come home, righteous man."

"No! I might still be able to heal him!" Aziraphale called, surging forward with surprising quickness for the appearance of his vessel, but Hastur cut his way off with a swipe of hellfire blazing up in front of him.

"Oh no. Hell forbid, no," the duke said, "If you think I'd let the _only one of you_ who even stands a smidgen of a chance against my power _anywhere_ close to me, you've got another thing coming," he snarled, regarding the blonde angel with narrowed eyes. He beat his wings once, twice, rolling his shoulders and letting the knife slide neatly out of his body and kicking it away from him carelessly. "If _sneaking up on me_ was your brilliant plan then it has failed spectacularly," Hastur smirked, his eyes roving from an axiously hovering Aziraphale still trying to get to Sam over to Dean who looked like he was either about to fall apart or tear into him at a moment's notice, the older hunter's gaze fixed on his brother's body bleeding out at the demon's feet.

"You're going to pay for thiss," Crowley hissed, picking up the knife from the floor, preparing to fling it at the duke, "Dean, are you-?" he began to ask, but the older Winchester brother had seemingly already broken down, shoved Alastair out of the way heedlessly and was now charging at Hastur while firing his shot gun like a man gone mad. But this time the duke only laughed, swatting first the bullets and then Dean away like suicidal flies.

"No! Sam!" Dean shouted, trying to get back onto his knees from where Alastair had flung him onto the floor only a body's length away from his brother, desperately reaching out a hand toward the still form on the floor and the ever increasing blood stain below, but then gasped as obviously something had grasped him around the neck like Crowley before, keeping him on his knees, while his fingers were scrabbling at his throat.

"This is slightly underwhelming, Alastair," Hastur stated, regarding the display in front of his feet with a raised eye brow. "You led me to believe these two were actually a challenge."

"One of them did manage to knife you, and then _I_ was the one who had to shoot him," Alastair pointed out in irritation. "And now you can barely manage to keep one angel in check, while – aaa _h_!"

"Aziraphale! Now!" Crowley shouted, straight after having flung the knife at Alastair and having scored a hit on the other demon's arm, not enough to excorcise him, but apparently enough to injure. "I will distract Hastur and you can heal-!"

" _Oh can he, though_?" Alastair cut through Crowley's directions with a voice like acid, clutching at his injured arm. "Because, just to let you know, I've studied up on angels since the last time I had a run in with those pests – and I did learn a trick or two. Your grace?"

"My pleasure," Hastur replied smoothly – and then pulled forth a bottle of something that was golden, viscous and shimmering in a flask, and before anybody could say anything, had flung the contests all over Aziraphale, who immediately cried out.

"What-?!" Even Dean, who was still in Hastur's force choke hold managed a sound, as he and Crowley both stared at the display uncomprehendingly for a second before Hastur's voice broke the silence.

"It's holy oil," he said smoothly. "An inescapable trap for angels...and now, just to see what happens, I'm going to set it on fire."

He flicked a finger and the warehouse was suddenly lit as bright as day, the centre of the blaze one incredibly surprised, wide- and blue-eyed angel, tattered wings bursting forth from his back like birds trying to escape a burning tree. The angel screamed.

And the look on Crowley's face could only be described as utter horror.

" _AZIRAPHALE_!"

Hastur grinned at him as his eyes shone from the reflected fire. "Watch your winged love burn, Crawly..."

"No..." Crowley's voice was strangled, barely a whisper, even as the body of his friend finally fell over, the flames beginning to slowly recede, leaving behind something that was mercifully hidden in the darkness.

Their numbers had already been halved. The battle had gone horrifically wrong. Aziraphale was dead. Sam soon would be. Dean was still struggling in Hastur's choke hold with no hope to escape, and Crowley was standing in the middle of all this carnage, paralyzed.

"And look what I brought for you," Alastair said sweetly, stepping closer to the shell-shocked demon in the black suit, "You know, I'm the chief torturer down there, you might have heard of me, so my professional pride would have demanded something else, something that draws this out more, but..." and here the human demon gave a shrug, and then pulled out another gun from his belt, but this one was a water pistol. "Duke's orders."

"Huh," said Crowley, almost not even managing that, simply blinking at the in any other scenario ridiculous-looking green and yellow plastic gun aimed at him. His face was absolutely ashen, as if any energy he had had had been burned out of him the moment the angel went up in flames.

"It's been blessed by the Archbishop of Canterbury," Alastair informed him cheerfully. "Would be pretty painful for _me_ if I got a drop of this on my fine skin, but for you, my friend..." he sucked a breath of air through his teeth. "Well." He smiled. "This might not go against my professional pride after all."

He pointed the pistol at the demon who still hadn't moved an inch. Crowley closed his eyes. Alastair's finger tightened.

"Hastur asks you to say hello to Ligur from him."

The stream hit Crowley straight in the chest and the demon dropped to the floor like he had been shot. Hastur looked like he was listening to music as Crowley was the third one that started screaming, curling in on himself as he was hiding his melting face in his arms, writhing on the floor.

"N-no...!" Dean was still pathetically struggling, his voice a mere rasping as he could barely get enough air even for that. His finger's twitched, still trying to reach Sam who was only a metre away from him, eyes of the younger man glazing over as the rest of his life was leaving his body.

"The 'righteous man', is it?" Hastur asked with a raised eye brow as he looked down at Dean, slowly coming to stand between him and his brother. "What a disappointment. This was hardly more than a...I believe the modern term is 'curd-stomp battle'?" He frowned. "It was something to with dairy, I think."

"...almost, your Grace." Alastair said, also stepping over from Crowley, whose movements had almost stilled on the floor. "But yeah. It's amazing what you can accomplish if you just learn from previous mistakes, eh, boys? Well," he added with a cruel grin, looking down at Dean and Sam. "I guess I should say 'boy' now, shouldn't I?"

"C...Cas..." Dean managed to gasp, struggling to turn his head to the door.

"Oh, waiting for him, are you?" Alastair asked, looking at his nails. "Well, so are we. Mainly because..."

And it was at this moment, that finally the doors of the warehouse crashed open and Castiel burst through them so very much too late.

"DEAN-!"

"So I can do _this,"_ Alastair said, and then twisted Dean's neck with one smooth movement right in front of the newly arrived angel. The hunter's body sagged lifelessly to the floor, coming to lie right next to his dead brother's.

And if Alastair had been able to, he would have gotten the look on the angel's face right now fucking framed.

"Too late, your pets are dead...along with your caregiver and his demon whore," the chief torturer finally stepped forward, leaving Hastur framed by the two dead bodies behind him, Crowley's and Aziraphale's corpses lying further away on the edges, giving the entire scene a morbid symmetry. Alastair spread his hands in front of it like an artist. "Well, angel? What do you say?!"

Castiel stared at him for a moment, his face expressionless.

Then:

"Well, that's fairly easy. One, you're both the biggest suckers on this planet," he said, his face bizarrely still an utter deadpan, before it _then_ transformed into a complete shite-eating grin, which, of course, looked even more out of place on Castiel's face, "And two, you _really_ shouldn't have let yourself get distracted by me."

"What?" Alastair frowned.

"Yeah. I ressssent the 'demon whore' bit, by the way." Dead Aziraphale raised a finger.

"What?!" Hastur whirled around.

"Wanna know what is more powerful than an excorcism by an angel?" Castiel in the door asked, now leaning against the frame almost casually, arms crossed. "Answer's real easy."

By now both Hastur and Alastair had resorted to simple uncomprehending staring at him and at Aziraphale (who seemed to have gone back to being dead), so Castiel simply rolled his eyes. "Fine. Show him, guys."

And then, there was a very definite yelp from Alastair, because now _both_ deadSam and dead Dean (the latter somewhat gingerly cracking his head back into place) sat up, and then simultaneously grabbed onto Hastur's sides.

"The only thing more powerful, than an excorcism performed by an angel," began Sam as he rose with an utterly serene smile,

"is an excorcism performed by _two_ ," Dean finished, and in contrast to Sam, his face was utterly expressionless, but his eyes were glowing blue like the brightest sky.

"N-No! Get-!"

Hastur was just beginning to struggle, but by then, both hunters had already laid their hands on his head, took a breath and-

 _"Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde_ _-"_

 _"-in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis!_ "

And despite all the fires they had already seen this night, the excorcism of one duke of hell still glowed the brightest of all.

"Emergency excorcism," Crowley, sitting (slightly wet) on the floor gave Castiel in the door a smug grin. "Told ya it would come in handy."

"What?! NO!" Alastair shouted, looking at the now lifeless body of Hastur aghast, stumbling a few steps backwards. "How-? Why-?!"

His back hit something. When he turned around, it was the ash-and-soot covered body of Aziraphale, the only non-black patch on his face two wickedly blue eyes and a grin of faintly tea-coloured teeth.

"Sucker," Arziraphale whispered cheerfully and then rammed the knife right into Alastair's back. The demon collapsed to his knees with barely a scream from torn lungs. It didn't kill him, yet, but he was obviously struggling to even compute anything now.

"You know, I've always been rather fond of human methods," Aziraphale continued conversationally, as Dean and Sam hurried over. "And you, kid, would need to have been created 5000 years earlier to get the drop on _me_."

"You...traitor..." Alastair struggled to get the words out, trying to glare at the blonde man even as the two hunters were already there, pressing him onto his knees as their hands settled on his head.

"Please," said Aziraphale, and then he favoured the demon on his knees with a grin that would have screamed for sunglasses, "Call me _Crowley_."

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohohoh! Can we get a few reactions, please? Would love to hear what you think :3


	16. It's a Kind Of Magic...

_Somewhere in a bookshop, about 15 miles west of the warehouse scene (and approx. 2 hours earlier...)_

  


"We're using a _potion_...from a _children's book series_?" 

The question 'Are you freakin' kidding me?' was written so plainly on Dean's face it could have been used as a teleprompter. 

"Actually," Aziraphale piped up and raised a finger, "There's point in arguing that _Harry Potter_ is not only a _children's_ book series-"

"I don't care! It's a book! They're supposed to be fictional!" Dean looked at his brother as if asking for support here, since apparently everyone else had lost it ever since Crowley had proposed his plan. Currently his angel pal had already begun to dig out the books and look for the relevant scenes. 

"Oh, good heavens, no," Aziraphale replied calmly while thumbing through the _Chamber of Secrets_ , "Every bit of lore she used in there is very real." He stopped to glance at both brothers over the rim of the book and raised an eye brow. "You _do_ know that Rowling is a prophet, right?"

Judging by the matching WTF-looks the Winchesters gave him, they didn't. Crowley, leaning in the doorway, snorted. 

"Duh. Where _else_ would she have gotten the descriptions of all the supernatural events from? Honestly." 

Sam stared at him. "Then...then does that mean that Harry Potter...?" 

Crowley shrugged. "Is also real. Saved the world in 1998. Of course, you might not have noticed it in Cowboyland." 

Dean exchanged a glance with Sam for a moment. Then: 

"Okay, just _what_ is going on on your crazy little island when-?!" 

"Well, in your defence, it's not _that_ obvious that the books are real," Aziraphale interrupted Dean's protests in a soothing tone, "You do have to have some magical ability to get all the spells and potions in there to work." Turning to Sam, he added. "Could you give me that jar of Fluxweed off that shelf? My, having a tall fellow around like you is handy..." 

Sam frowned, his face that of a man who hadn't even really heard what was being said to him, but was mentally wrestling with a much more difficult problem. "But this doesn't make any sense," he said, handing the ingredient over, and Dean nodded emphatically. 

" _Thank_ you. I mean, first of all, if there really _was_ a school for little British wizard freaks-"

"I mean, doesn't Polyjuice Potion take weeks to make?" Sam frowned. "Hermione brewed it in that haunted toilet for _ages_." 

And Dean looked at his younger brother like he had just committed fratricide. 

"Excuse me, _what_?" 

"I needed an outlet in between the studying, okay? And besides, they're written really well..." Sam muttered, arms crossed and distinctly not looking at his older sibling. 

"Okay. Whatever. My little brother isn't content with simply _being_ a geek, no, he has to read about little magical ones, too." Dean ran a hand over his face and let himself collapse back into one of the comfy chairs. "I swear I don't know where I went wrong..." 

Crowley cleared his throat. "Ahem. Yes. State of your family affairs aside, the beauty of being an occult creature is that you're allowed to cut corners," he said smoothly, dipping a finger into the bowl Aziraphale had prepared the ingredients in and then proceeded to lick it. "Yes, I think it's almost ready. Just missing the boomslang snake skin." 

"I _really_ hope that's not coming from you," Sam said, throwing Crowley a doubtful look, which the demon returned with a deadpan. 

"Oh har-de-har-har. No, since we need a second angel for this whole plan to work anyway, Aziraphale contacted his foster kid again. He should have it with him and be here right about n-"

And then Crowley was interrupted by the familiar sound of a wingbeat, and a second later Castiel was already standing inside the shop, holding a glass jar and looking just slightly confused. 

"Aziraphale?" he asked with a frown. "Why are we making Polyjuice Potion? I thought Harry's mission was over." 

"Oh, come _on_ -!" 

Crowley ignored Dean's exclamation and stepped in smoothly. "It's not for Potter, it's for us," he said. "We're going to win against Hastur and Alastair the human way – meaning, by cheating our arses off." 

"Not _cheating_ , Crowley," Aziraphale corrected calmly, taking the jar from Castiel and adding it to the worryingly bubbling mixture in the makeshift 'cauldron' that was actually just a sorry teapot, " _Tactical subterfuge_ in our fight against demonic wiles, remember? It's all perfectly in order." He smiled kindly at Castiel. 

The younger angel frowned, not looking pariticularly convinced. "A...plan of switched identities?" he asked. 

"Where they'll hopefully spectacularly fail to exploit our respective weaknesses, yes," Crowley replied smugly. "The magic of that potion even works to conceal our auras. That should give us a chance to get both you and Aziraphale close to Hastur so you can try a double exorcism when he least expects it."

Castiel still looked a bit lost, casting a glance at Dean for help, but the hunter could only throw up his hands and shrugged. 

"Don't ask me, I was lost the minute this gig started to turn into Dungeons and Dragons in here." 

"Me and Aziraphale...masquerading as two of you," Castiel was obviously trying to work out the idea behind the plan. "But then who is going to be-?"

Crowley shrugged. "Well, since Aziraphale is most likely to take the most severe damage, I'll be him. Plus, I'll be able to at least show them some wings to make it look convincing." 

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Alright. In that case, I'll be you." 

"What?" Sam protested. "No fair, _I_ wanted to be Crowley!" 

"Tough luck. Shotgun rules, Sammy." 

"Oh come on, you wouldn't even be able to appreciate the threadcount this guy wears-"

"Don't talk back to your older brother. You take the one with the dorky fashion sense, it suits you." Dean jerked a thumb at Aziraphale. 

"I _can_ hear you, you know?" the blonde angel snapped, sounding slightly peeved, while his demon companion was obviously caught between snickering and preening. Castiel mostly frowned. 

"I don't understand. Why does nobody want my body?" 

Which, of course, had Dean in a coughing fit and Crowley in stitches. 

"It's...it would be a bit...weird, you know?" Sam gave Castiel an apologetic expression. It didn't seem to help much in explaining. 

"Right," Crowley said, stepping in and then gesturing to Dean and then to Castiel. "You take him. It's not like either of you _really_ could pull off... _this_ ," he said, vaguely indicating his own body with a swipe of his hand, "but your kid brother may have less of a chance of botching it. Then Aziraphale can be your elk of a sibling." 

"What? Why him and not me?!" Dean protested, but Sam merely blinked. 

"Wait. Your name is Crowley...and you just called me an elk." 

"Huh? Yeah. So?" the demon asked.

"....nothing," the younger hunter said, now with the air of a man who seemed to have realized that there were some battles you just had no chance of winning, ever. 

Dean snorted. "Fine, Sammy can be you. The most you ever seem to do is stand around and make bitchy comments, he should be able to mimic that perfectly." 

"Hey!" 

_"Hey!"_

This time, the protests from both Winchester and demon came in unison. Aziraphale tried to calm everyone down with some general soothing gestures. 

"Alright, alright. Now that everyone is sorted out-"

"Wait," Dean said, "Are we?" he asked, before his face briefly screwed up in the universal grimace of those performing mental arithmetic. "You said...if Sam is going to be yellow eyes, and the demon is going to be Aziraphale, and Aziraphale is Sam, that means-" and then he broke off, briefly looking like a deer in the headlights, right as Castiel said, completely serious, 

"Yes. I will take your body, Dean." 

"Dude!" the hunter grunted, very aware of the rising giggles in the background, "Just...just stop phrasing it that way, okay?" 

"Why?" Castiel asked. "It is true that we shall have each other," he said, looking faintly pleased at the notion, while Dean's expression was just _daring_ anyone else to make a comment (and his unhelpful younger brother's shoulders were of course trembling like a miniature earthquake). 

  


xxx

  


About half an hour later, after some final preparations had been sorted out ('What? No. No way am I drinking something with someone's _hair_ in it, Sam, this is nuts') all five of their little group were standing around the tea kettle with the strangely bubbling liquid inside, all of them holding a cup where a strand or lock of hair of their respective targets had been dissolved in. Each drink had turned into a different colour afterwards. Sam's was currently a steamy green and generally looking sort of radioactive, and the younger hunter was staring at it with all the enthusiasm of a man facing a firing squad. 

"Why...why is mine _glowing_?" 

"It could be because Crowley is a demon," Aziraphale said with a slight grimace. "To be honest, Polyjuice potion is only really meant to be used to turn humans into other humans, we don't really know how it will react to supernatural beings."

"Brilliant," Sam commented with an unhappy expression. "I'll probably end up as a salamander."

"Bottoms up, kid, me and your brother have angel hair in ours and now it _sparkles_ ," Crowley commented dryly. "It's fair to say I never wanted to swallow a piece of the angel less than this," he muttered as an aside, to which Dean cleared his throat audibly, and then thrust out his cup. 

"Right. Are we drinking this or not?" 

They all exchanged a glance. The cup Castiel was holding contained the most drinkable-looking liquid, a smooth rich golden tone, the one that held Sam's hair was a deep, slightly foaming red, the mugs that had been enriched with angel pieces were, yes, sparkling like a Pride parade, and of course nobody really wanted to get too close to _Sam's_ cup with its startlingly ever more poisonous-looking liquid, all of them perhaps afraid that it would at some point try to climb out of its cup. 

"Thanks, guys," Sam said dryly. 

"Okay then, here goes nothing," Dean said, raising his own drink. "One, two..." 

They all drank in unison. For a second, nothing seemed to happen, but then all of them started gasping, doubling over (or, in one case, started running to the toilet with an absolutely panicked expression). Sam went down with a strangled cry, ending up on his hands and knees on the dusty floor, Castiel groaned and barely managed to keep himself upright against the doorframe, Dean was bracing himself against the desk while trying not to keel over because it felt like his skin was _melting,_ and Aziraphale was lying sideways on the couch, his arms hugging his chest tightly while his face was screwed up in the grimace of pain they all shared. 

Clothes tore and bones cracked, Crowley fell down with a cut short gasp before ever making it to the rest room because one of his legs was suddenly longer than the other, hair made an absolutely _weird_ noise where it changed colour and turned into blonde curls, Sam looked for one moment madder than ever, because one eye of his was still normal while the other had already turned bright yellow, Castiel nearly lost his balance because his chest abruptly expanded (and then Crowley gave a very distinct despairing moan, because in his case, it was his _belly_ that had expanded and his fine shirt had promptly lost three buttons as it did). 

In the end, the changing process had barely lasted a minute, but when it was over, it was safe to say that no one of their group...looked very intimidating any more. Aziraphale (who had turned into Sam) stood slightly sheepish in a shirt and a vest that had simply given up and torn over muscular shoulders and then ridden up, leaving his toned belly ridiculously exposed, and also leaving _Dean_ with the impression that this person that now looked like his younger brother now also looked like Sam the Stripper Librarian and wasn't _that_ an image he had never wanted burnt into his brain. 

Of course, he himself looked fairly silly, he supposed, the clothes he had been wearing hanging off Castiel's smaller frame as if someone had tried to dress a scare crow in the flanel store. The angel himself, on the other hand, now wearing Dean's body, looked fairly constricted. 

"Dean?" he managed, voice hoarse. "With your body, these pants are now somewhat tight." 

"Cas," Dean tried, almost swallowing his tongue because he now of course spoke with Castiel's voice, "Don't...don't talk about _anything_. Concerning my body. Okay?" 

Cas looked down at his new form and frowned. 

"Why? I thought it was a nice body." 

"Argh," Dean commented.

He even found it hard to look the angel, who was now wearing his face, but still dressed in Castiel's preferred brand of crossover between office casual and wandering hobo. Only now everything fit very _tightly_ , and really, Dean wasn't even in his own body, so he _really_ didn't want to feel that way, _especially_ not when he was looking at _himself_ of all people and - 

"Sam?" croaked Dean in Castiel's voice. "I think this was our most terrible plan ever." 

"You notice that _now_?," his younger brother replied, at the same time managing to use Crowley's body to walk into a door. "Ow! I can't see with these eyes. Help." 

Dean briefly contemplated to hang himself with Castiel's trenchcoat belt. 

"Everyone else is fine?" he asked, desperately. 

"What? Yeah, yeah," Crowley, wearing Aziraphale's body commented with a wave. The demon and the angel seemed already to have recovered, which Dean supposed was probably due to them being used to occasionally switching bodies anyway. Right now they were busy fixing their torn clothes and magicking them into the appropriate costume for the role they were portraying. There only seemed to be a brief scuffle because Crowley apparently kept changing the tartan patterns and brown tweed pants the angel tried to dress him in, attempting to replace them with blacks and reds. 

" _Will_ you stop doing that, Crowley!" 

"But I'm a demon! We need _style!_ "

"No, you don't. I'm wearing these new-fangled blue jeans trousers and they're the most uncomfortable thing I've had in my _life,_ and that includes our stay in revolutionary France, so you can at least-" 

Well, that was Sam's voice, and it was whining. At least that was a bit of normalcy he could cling to, Dean supposed (even if Sam had never quite had that British accent). He turned to Cas. 

"Hey. Can you fix our clothes, too?" 

"Oh," Castiel blinked. "Yes." He waived a hand, and Dean's clothes began to shift around his body, becoming a somewhat better fitting pair of dress pants and a shirt, with a familiar brown trenchcoat then settling over them. A loose blue tie materializing around his neck was the final touch, and Dean thought Castiel even let see a little smile as he finished. "There. That looks right." 

"Uh, thanks," Dean said, awkwardly attempting to smile back with a mouth that was not his own. "Can you help Sam as well?"

"Of course," Castiel nodded, repeating the gesture. Sam flailed a bit as his now oversized clothes shrunk and became the shapely cut black suit and tie combo, at the same time as Castiel's own attire changed into Dean's. 

"Wow. Huh." Sam glanced down at himself. "As soon as I stop seeing double, I'm sure that'll actually look really good, thanks." He held up a book in front of his face and peered at it like someone in serious need of a pair of glasses. "I think I'll need some time to get usssed to these eyess – and the _tongue_ ," he added pointedly, glowering a bit at Crowley. 

The demon in the angel's body shrugged. "You're missing the shades, boy," he said, at the same time snapping his fingers to produce a small spark of hellfire. As a result, a pair of black sunglasses appeared right on top of Sam's nose. The younger hunter frowned. 

"Yeah, Crowley, I can't actually see in the dark." 

"Oh, fine," the demon sighed, waving a hand to turn the lenses a few shades lighter. "It seems like the potion really doesn't transfer even the most rudimentary of powers."

Sam moved across the shop gingerly. "Your pupils are weird. This field of vision is funny." 

" _Your_ field of vision is funny," Crowley informed him tartly. 

"We should go," Castiel said, "Polyjuice potion lasts only for an hour. We need to head down to the warehouse." 

"Right," Dean nodded, preparing to leave, Crowley and Sam also trailing behind him. The demon turned around when it became apparent that Aziraphale was the only one lagging behind, calling out briefly

"Angel! You coming?" 

"Sure, sure, one moment, this is marvellous, I can _finally_ reach the uppermost shelves-"

The angel's enthusiasm was only _slightly_ dampened, when on his way out, he hit his head promptly against the doorframe. 

  


xxx

  


_(Approx. Two hours later, starting right where last chapter left off...)_

  


_"- in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis!"_

Beneath the hands of both "Sam" and "Dean", Alastair screamed and tried to escape his vessel by becoming a cloud of black smoke, but Castiel in Dean's body growled an 'Oh, no, you don't', reached right into the poisonous cloud, and then dispelled it with a gesture that let the smoke _explode_ into all directions with a sound like an inhuman scream. "There," he said. "Go to hell...that is, oh wait, now you can't." 

Sam in Crowley's body looked at his brother who still looked like Castiel. 

"Dude, I think Cas is trying to be in character and give cool one-liners as you." 

Dean was currently carefully not looking at himself. 

"...I know." 

"And he's really, really, bad at it."

" I _know._ " 

"Are you going to tell him?"

"...no," Dean said and Sam smiled. 

"Very well. That's done," Aziraphale said, dusting his hands off on Sam's trousers. "And just in case any one should be listening," he added, his voice just subtly rising as he drew himself up and somehow suddenly looked even taller than Sam as his human self ever had. "I'll have you know that this place is in my care as the Principality of this continent," he spoke, his voice even a bit otherworldly now, deep and carrying, and even if was still Sam's face, hazel eyes had now definitely turned blue and searing - and for a moment, Dean even wondered if he could see the outline of wings behind his younger brother, just briefly feel the true age and power of this book-selling angel that yet seemed older than anyone bar Gabriel and Lucifer, "... _and I will not tolerate anyone harming a hair on any soul within my jurisdiction_." 

There was a bit of silence, all of them just slightly awed. Aziraphale crossed his arms. 

"'Obsolete' he called me! _Honestly_!" 

"Yeah, I have a feeling they won't be doing that again," Crowley said, walking over to his angel and attempting a soothing rub on Sam's upper arm. Turning to the actual Sam, he added, 

"By the way, at the beginning I'd have said you were in character as me, but then...' _You're going to pay for this_ '? Really?" 

"It was a bit of a stressful situation," Sam said, giving Crowley one of his better bitchfaces, which, frankly, in the demon's body worked just as well. "And anyway, I managed the hissing, didn't I?"

"Eh, I give it a 6.5." 

"Oh, come on. And besides, we only had like one short car ride here to get into character," Sam complained. "Dean and Castiel at least knew each other." In truth, Sam thought, Castiel's perfomance had even been a little bit touching. The angel was notoriously bad at acting, so Sam knew that the fierce protectiveness Castiel-as-Dean had shown as 'Sam' had been hurt,had been genuine. 

"Yeah, how long until this Freaky Friday show ends, anyway?" Dean asked at that. "I mean, nought for nothin', Cas, but I'd rather have my own meatsuit back if you don't mind."

"Oh, actually, it should be just about-" Aziraphale said, and that was as far as he came, because _then_ they all gasped in unison again, and another series of very interesting events happened. Crowley's clothes tore as Sam shot back to his full height and width, while the demon himself somehow managed to make Aziraphale's clothes look even _less_ fashionable now that they were loose and ill-fittingly hanging off his smaller frame, while the Principality looked mostly a bit lost in pants that were far too long for his legs now. Sam just looked extremely constricted. 

"...now," the blonde angel finished. 

Then, the entire group just made to hustle out of the warehouse as quickly as possible, because the light shows of not one, but two exorcisms would have been sure to attract the police, and right now nobody wanted to explain what exactly two men and three man-shaped beings were doing half-dressed with two dead bodies in a warehouse. 

  


xxx

  


The following dawn rose bright and early, which was quite the contrast to a certain pair of brothers and their supernatural friends. The rest of the evening had been spent in a pub (that Crowley had convinced to stay open considerably longer than its terrified owner had obviously planned) where Dean discovered that one of the more pleasant differences in between Europe and the US was that here, you could actually get unlimited alcohol at a flat rate. ("Y...you knooow, your cunnery ishn't half. Half. Thingamajig. Bad. Tha's righ." "Dean, maybe we should go." "Nnooooo, the nigh's jus gettin stahted, human, don be such a...such a...spoily thing...fish. Yeah." "Crowley, you aren't helping." ) 

In one of the more interesting points during last night's debates, the question had been raised as to why, if all angels, even fallen ones, had white wings, Castiel appeared to have black ones, which Aziraphale first explained rather sweetly with 'Well, when Castiel was created, it had already been rather late. The Lord wanted to call it a day and retire, but there was still one little wave, who wanted to be an angel so badly and wanted to be one _now, that..._ you see, God's son had _just_ been born a few days ago, and this wavelength of celestial intent was now very intent on not missing another single one of them," the blonde angel had reminisced fondly, while Castiel next to him was wearing an expression as if he kind of hoped to drown in his own pint glass. None of the others seemed to notice. "And so," Aziraphale continued, "He made an exception – He created an angel just as the sun set, instead of waiting for the next dawn. And there you have Castiel – wings as black as the night sky he saw on his first moment alive, and made guardian of the day of thunder, because a thunderstorm he brought with him as he beat those wings for the first time."

("Tha' last one's a lie," Crowley had said. "Ah showed him tha' movie, Budderfly Whotsit, an' he just keeps adding tha' storm thingy now.") 

This rather sweet explanation (which had left especially Dean looking slightly nauseous...) was then followed with several stories of how Castiel had managed to get his wings shut in doors repeatedly, had once tried to paint them white after being teased about them, and, in one memorable instance, had ended up completely tangled in celestial fly catchers. This seemed to be of much greater entertainment for the hunters, even it it meant that the angel in question declared at one point that he now really felt like in a smiting mood, and therefore would leave them to go face Raphael again, because at this point that seemed like the less painful experience. (But then, Aziraphale smiling at him and saying that if he needed help, he could always rely on family, had let him leave with something that almost looked like a smile.)

And so, in the late hours of the next morning, it was now only the two hunters, one demon and one angel left, standing in front of the book store they had eventually collectively crashed in last night, even Aziraphale and Crowley too drunk to remember how to sober up again. This meant that out of four people, Sam was now the only one without a massive headache, which he felt vaguely smug about. The weather had cleared up now, one of the few genuinely sunny winter days about to begin and London was already busily rushing around them, a city completely oblivious to having once again just narrowely escaped utter obliteration (but then again, London, being London, was of course used to that by now). 

"Right," Dean finally said, reaching out a hand. Crowley seemed startled for a moment, but then took it. "You...take care of..." Dean gave a hand wave to indicate a general area that could have been the city or perhaps the entire island in general. "...this, okay?" 

"Don't worry. We will," Aziraphale replied in Crowley's stead, shaking both Dean and Sam's hands in turn. "Otherwise, there's Adam to help out. The other antichrist." 

"He's currently going to college," Crowley added helpfully. 

"Man, how come _other_ vessels of Satan get to go to college?" Sam grumbled as he also shook the demon's hand, but Dean shrugged. 

"Things obviously work different here, Sammy." 

"Yeah, you can say _that_ again..." 

"Don't take it to heart," Aziraphale said soothingly, once again patting Sam on the head and then nodding at Dean, who regarded him a bit more warily. "Call us if you ever need help at home."

"And then we'll think of _maybe_ leaving London and going to Bat country, yeah," Crowley added with a quirk to his lips. "Let's get back inside, angel, it's way too early for any wiling. Despite proverbs, evil actually does want to sleep now. See you around, kids," the demon yawned, turning to head back into the bookshop without even waiting to see whether his angel friend would follow. Aziraphale managed an apologetic shrug. "He actually does sleep, you know. It's sort of his hobby, I think. You get home safe."

"Will do," Sam said, as both brothers were already climbing back into the Impala, waving at the angel one last time before closing the door. 

Dean pulled out into the traffic, heading north for the airport. He threw Sam a look. "People call us Cas' pets already, you don't have to let them pat you on the head as well." 

Sam stuck his tongue out. "You're just jealous." 

And Dean couldn't suppress a smile. He had no idea what it was about this particular hunt, but somehow, this brief stint in England now let him feel almost hopeful about the future again, about the angelic war, and, most importantly, about things between him and Sam. For now, though...

He glanced at his brother. "Okay. Ready to return to America?" 

Sam met his gaze with wide, earnest eyes. " _SO_ ready to return to America."

And so, not soon after, in two different places but with four people having stood together to save the world (or at least London today), two bottles of beer above the hood of a '67 Impala and two glasses of _Château Lafite_ in the backroom of an old dusty bookshop somewhere in Soho clinked in unison.

And then, of course, Black Sabbath started belting out _Bohemian Rhapsody_ because not a single one of them had remembered to fix the Impala's cassette player. 

  


_Fin_

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished! :D And, if you read until here, would be awesome if you left a review :3 Kudos are...nice, I guess, but comments are what really make a fanfic author's day :) See you next fic!


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